i 

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-NRLF 


3  3E7  ma 


Rumor. 


BY    THE    AUTHOR    OF 


COUNTERPARTS,"  AND  "CMARLES  AUChEST£K. 


1^ 


^-^ 


^^^vs 


.IBRARY   OF   THi: 


University  of  California. 


CIRCUl 
/ 


I  Estnrn  in  ^aif  week^^  or  a  week  \it\ibxz  the  end  of  the  ^^Jtac  Ik  dt 


Bumo  r. 


BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF 

« CHARLES  AUCHESTER,"  "COUNTERPARTS,"  Em 


/■ 


i£/^.a^/A  ^3\  Q^Lj^h^d  7 


'  Fame  is  no  plant  that  grows  on  mortal  soil, 
Nor  in  the  glistering  foil 

Set  off  to  the  world,  nor  in  broad  Rumor  lies; 
But  lives  and  spreads  aloft  b_v  those  pure  eyes, 
And  perfect  witness  of  all-judging  Jove; 
As  He  pronounces  lastly,  on  each  deed. 
Of  so  much  fame  in  Heaven,  expect  thy  meed." 

LYCinAs. 


BOSTON": 
ESTES    A.lsrD    LA.XJIIIA.T, 


143  WASHINGTON  STREET. 
1874. 


3s~^y^ 


RUMOR. 


QUIA 


n 


CHAPTER   I. 

It  was  a  mid-August  evening,  warm  and 
cloudless,  and  very  dusty  on  a  certain  bigh 
road  in  England,  along  whose  foot-path 
were  pressing  two  travellers,  a  woman  and  a 
youth. 

The  way  was  monotonously  bounded  on 
one  side  by  a  long  wall,  enclosing  shrubbe- 
ries pertaining  to  a  retired  manufacturer, 
who  had  found  it  very  easy  to  plant  trees, 
but  im])o.ssil)le  to  force  from  them  prema- 
turely the  solemn  s])lendors  of  profound  an- 
cestral shades.  Lamps  at  regular  distances 
showed  the  road  onwards  straight  and  un- 
winding within  the  sight,  and  the  view  across 
the  road,  by  daylight  a  breadth  of  pasture, 
deep  grceu  or  clover-flush,  now  seemed  a 
purple  Hat,  over  which  the  soft  wind  wan- 
dered, each  breath  heaving  with  stolen  fra- 
grances, or  laden  still  more  heavily  with  the 
distant  thunder  of  the  train,  and  the  dimin- 
ished, wailful  shriek  of  its  guardian  monster. 

The  wayfarers  must  have  been  weary,  for 
before  they  reached  the  angle  of  the  wall, 
they  both  stopped,  and  the  woman  sat  down 
to  rest  on  the  bank,  which,  spotted  with 
scanty  grass,  half  choked  with  dust,  sloped 
to  the  (lustier  road.  She  said  some  words 
to  her  companion,  and  he  nodded  for  reply, 
and  then  stood  on  beside  her,  with  his  large 
hat,  of  a  somewhat  outlandish  form,  slouched 
over  his  brows,  and  his  right  foot  beating 
constantly  on  the  ground. 

Presently  a  water-cart —  strange  spectacle 
after  sunset  upon  so  lone  a  road  —  creaked 
slowly  by,  scattering  its  broad  stream  over 
the  hissing  dust.  It  w^as  scarcely  out  of 
sight  when  a  carriage  followed  it,  seen  by 
the  light  of  its  own  lamps,  and  whose  driver, 
steeds,  and  occupants  alike  received  the 
benefit  of  the  cooled  and  moistened  track. 
It  was  going  at  full  speed,  and  in  another 
instant  would  have  passed  the  travellers, 
when  its  course  was  arrested  by  the  youth 
himself,  Avho  stepped  into  the  road,  and 
walked  full  pace  towards  the  horses  ;  there- 
by causing  the  conscientious  coachman  to 
piiU  them  up,  much  more   on  account  of 


their  fresh  and  timid  blood,  than  for  fear  of 
running  over  a  human  being  in  a  slouched 
hat,  who  had  the  further  audacity  to  advance 
to  the  window  as  the  carriage  stopped,  and 
to  tap  upon  the  glass,  which  was  up  then, 
but  dashed  down  in  another  moment. 

"  Who  are  you,  and  what  do  you  want  ?  " 
inquired  a  lady,  whose  spirited  tones  betrayed 
not  the  least  alarm,  though  her  only  com- 
panion was  another  lady.  The  youth  bowed, 
or  rather  nodded,  then  raised  his  head  which 
had  been  sunk  upon  his  breast,  and  cast  a 
peering  glance  on  both  those  fair  faces. 
The  hat  was  dragged  off  after  that  scrutiny, 
and  a  very  lowly  though  awkward  recogni- 
tion followed  in  a  bow.  He  fumbled  with 
one  hand  a  little,  and  at  length  produced  a 
letter. 

"  I  wish  to  know  where  these  people 
live,"  said  he  in  broken  EngHsh. 

"  To  whom  then  is  it  addressed  ?  "  asked 
the  elder  lady,  and  she  took  the  letter  in  her 
hand,  and  read  the  superscription  by  the 
light  of  a  lamp  hanging  from  the  carriage 
top.  For  these  ladies  whenever  so  travel- 
ling together,  did  not  waste  their  time ; 
when  not  speaking  they  studied  or  read  to- 
gether, and  were  in  all  respects  like  devotedly 
attached  sisters,  except  that  they  were  mother 
and  daughter. 

"What  a  singular  —  extraordinary  coin- 
cidence —  why  Elizabeth,  this  letter  is  for 
us  ;  and  the  writing  too  is  the  old  scrawl, 
Schenk's  hieroglyphic  —  who  is  to  make  it 
out  ?  " 

"  Let  me  look,  mamma." 

And  the  two  heads  touched  one  another, 
bending  over  the  letter.  They  spelled, 
smiled,  laughed  together  as  though  no  one 
else  were  by. 

"  The  letter  is  for  you  ther,  lady,  as  you 
open  it,"  said  the  youth,  who  Avas  still  stand- 
ing close  to  the  window,  and  looking  in  full 
upon  them  ;  thus  placed,  however,  not  seem- 
ing rude,  if  his  behavior  were  so.  Now  ne 
spoke  German.  The  lady  who  had  addressed 
him  first  looked  up,  and  answered  in  that 
language. 

"  It.  was  very  impertinent  to  open  it  with- 
(3) 


RUMOR. 


out  telling  you  first  it  was  for  us  ;  but  my 
old  friend's  writing  made  me  forget  for  a 
moment  every  thing  else.  But  it  would  have 
saved  you  some  trouble  if  you  had  inquired 
at  the  station  where  we  lived  ;  they  know." 

"  Ah,  but  I  could  not  pronounce  the  name, 
and  I  would  not  show  the  letter,  because  it 
would  pei-haps  have  been  stolen,  and  it  is  all 
I  have  in  the  world,  except  something  which 
is  not  of  value  yet.  Now,"  changing  his 
moody  tone  for  one  of  sharp  vivacity, 
"  which  way  am  I  to  go  to  find  your  house  ? 
at  least  not  your  house,  of  course  I  know 
my  place,  though  you  will  let  me  see  you 
there,  an/'  will  do  more  than  that,  for  Schenk 
promised  me  so.  But  my  mother  is  with 
me,  and  is  sick  with  the  journey  ;  she  is 
sitting  out  there  on  the  bank,  and  I  must 
take  her  to  an  inn." 

"  Strange  to  bring  her !  Schenk  does 
not  say  so,"  whisjjered  the  mother  to  the 
daughter,  noiselessly  close  at  her  ear ;  but 
the  whisper  was  heard. 

"  She  goes  with  me  every  where,"  he  said, 
in  a  sharp  and  scornful  voice.  "  Your 
daughter  does  not  leave  yoti." 

The  ladies  glanced  at  each  other,  and  in 
their  mute  eye-language,  expressive  to  each 
other,  they  inquired,  "  What  shall  we  do 
Avith  both  ?  "  at  least,  the  mother's  eye  in- 
quired so ;  but  the  daughter  answered  alone  in 
English.  "  We  must  take  them  back,  mam- 
ma, it  is  three  miles  to  Northeden  now,  and 
I  am  sure  no  one  who  has  come  from  the 
station  can  walk  so  far,  particularly  if  tired." 

The  mother  looked  amazed,  and  somewhat 

anxious.    "  Go  back  ?  but  if  so  we  shall  not  get 

to  Walden  until  eleven,  nay  twelve  o'clock, 

and  Charles  will  be  so  terribly  alarmed  about 

you,  and  will  think  you  are  taken  suddenly  ill." 

"  Oh  no,  he  always  has  true  presenti- 
ments, never  false  ones.  A  little  anxiety 
will  season  him,  he  will  have  plenty  of  it  in 
time  to  come.  We  cannot  leave  that  pale 
creature  sitting  in  the  dust.  Turn  the 
horses'  heads,  draw  up  at  the  side  of  the 
road,  and  then  when  we  have  taken  up  those 
two  persons,  return  to  Northeden,  and  stop 
at  the  Homestead  Inn."  This  last  part  of 
the  sentence,  delivered  as  an  order,  was 
directly  obeyed  ;  evidently  the  servants  were 
accustomed  to  witness  acts  of  eccentric  kind- 
ness on  the  part  of  their  employers.  The 
door  was  opened,  the  youth  handed  his 
mother  into  the  cai-riage,  and  followed  him- 
self, quite  as  a  matter  of  course.  She  was 
so  exhausted  that  she  was  soon  asleep,  and 
he  would  have  shut  himself  up,  as  it  were, 
with  closed  lids  and  lips,  as  though  asleep, 
had  not  the  elder  lady  asked  him  "  How  did 
you  know  me  ?  How  did  you  trust  the  let- 
ter to  me  ?     Might  I  not  also  have  stolen  it  ?  " 

"  I  know  a  thief  when  I  see  one,"  was  the 
reply.  "  First  I  thought  that  ladies,  or  any 
body  in  so  fine  a  carriage,  could  tell  me  the 
way  to  take.  And  when  I  saw  you  I  knew 
you  from  the  picture  you  gave  Schenk." 


"  Has  he  kept  that  scratch  all  these  years  P 
the  lady  asked.     There  was  a  nod,  but  no 
further  reply  or  remark,  the  hat  Avas  dragged 
down    again  over   the   brows,  and  the   face 
sunk  again  upon  the  breast. 

"  It  has  not  taken  long  you  see,  mamma," 
said  Elizabeth,  as  they  stopped  at  the  door 
of  a  picturesque  country  inn,  with  lights 
gleaming  through  crimson  blinds  below,  and 
behind  white  curtains  above,  at  the  windows  ; 
and  to  the  master  of  which,  when  he  came 
out,  his  round  countenance  elongated  like  a 
face  in  a  spoon,  by  surprise,  the  elder  lady 
explained  something  which  only  drew  it 
down  the  longer,  though  at  the  same  time  it 
was  warped  across  by  a  smile,  made  grim 
with  reverence.  The  woman  woke  up  ;  the 
youth  handed  her  out  as  composedly  as  he 
had  handed  her  in,  and  Avhile  she  stared 
round  her,  courtesied,  and  poured  forth  an 
inarticulate  babble  of  gratitude,  he  looked 
on  with  an  air  almost  impatient,  and  although 
he  said  "  I  thank  you,  lady,"  it  Avas  rather 
in  the  tone  of  a  superior  Avho  acknoAvledges 
his  due,  than  of  an  inferior  (or  even  an 
equal),  benefited  by  an  act  of  unusual,  and 
most  opportune  courtesy. 

"  NoAv  fresh  horses,  mamma,"  said  Eliza- 
beth, "  and  Ave  shall  in  no  time  be  there." 


CHAPTER  II. 

The  mother  and  daughter  entered  the 
ball-room  at  the  auspicious  moment  AA'hec, 
supper  was  served;  auspicious  for  them,  be- 
cause its  formality  all  broken  up,  the  croAvd 
pressing  outAvards,  armed  Avith  one  desire  — 
a  very  natural  one  after  the  fatigue  of  a 
festival  at  the  sultry  autumn  fall,  that  of 
refreshing  itself — left  them  an  almost  de- 
serted room  behind  it. 

The  gentlemen  of  the  croAvd  Avere  many 
of  them  gay  in  military  costume,  Avhose 
possible  gairishness  was  corrected  and  sof- 
tened by  the  universal  ladies'  costume-— 
Avhite ;  for  the  heat  and  splendor  of  the 
Aveather  demanded  the  lightest  and  the  cool- 
est covering.  As  all  passed  to  the  pavilion 
on  the  laAvn  Avhich  Avould  contain  all  the 
guests,  there  Avere  many  Avafted  "  I  wonders," 
and  floating  questions  respecting  India, 
whether  the  weather  was  as  Avarm  tliere, 
or  could  possibly  be  Avarmer  —  Avhether  such 
and  such  exotics  in  the  tent  or  on  the  tables, 
Avere  children  of  the  Indian  sun;  Avhich 
Indian  fruits  Avere  most  refreshing ;  Avhich 
station  AA-as  the  healthiest,  the  gayest,  and 
the  least  infested  by  rattle-snakes.  And 
these  murmurs,  insignificant  in  themselves, 
were  accompanied  by  glances  Avhich  rendered 
them  significant,  and  smiles  more  sad  .than 
gay,  and  many  a  sigh  half  stifled  ;  over  all 
spreading  the  melancholy  of  which  not  the 


RUMOR. 


manliest  is  ashamed,  the  melancholy  promise 
of  the  Unknown,  to  the  daring  and  the 
devoted.  For  a  common  cause  or  condition 
binds  the  many  hearts  together  in  a  stricter 
fraternity  than'  that  of  blood  ;  and  the  few 
great  hearts  and  heroic  minds  raise  the  many 
of  less  intelligence  and  feeling  to  their  own 
high  standard,  at  least  for  the  time  they  are 
to  act  and  endure  together.  This  regiment 
was  very  soon  to  ,  leave  for  India,  and  for 
active  service,  and  though  a  large  proportion 
of  its  members  were  full  of  hasty  blood, 
foolish  with  the  frailty  of  youth;  though 
there  were  vain  men,  frivolous  men,  idle 
men,  and  selfish  men,  among  them,  still  they 
all  seemed  alike  endowed  with  a  mysterious 
individual  interest  that  each  perceived  in 
each  —  bound  to  one  place,  on  the  same 
business,  liable  to  the  same  dangers,  pos- 
sibly the  same  destiny  or  death.  So  men 
feel  in  the  time  of  a  common  plague  or  sick- 
ness, or  when  great  judgments  walk  abroad, 
and  fall  on  men  together ;  —  limine,  or 
panic  ;  as  terrible  as  war  and  death,  if  less 
sublime  than  they. 

There  was  one  among  those  present  having 
already  seen  active  service,  who  had  won  glory 
already  as  his  just  guerdon  during  his  first 
campaign  in  India,  a  man  marvellously  ma- 
tured for  his  years,  and  of  principles  as  pure 
as  his  stainless  soldier's  honor.  It  was  he 
who  advanced  to  meet  Elizabeth,  and  who 
took  her  from  her  mother's  side  with  the  air 
of  one  who  had  moi-e  part  in  her  possession 
already,  than  had  her  mother.  Till  her 
coming,  his  glance  had  been  sad  with  sus- 
pense, but  only  with  such  gentle  torment ; 
neither  shade  of  jealousy  nor  scowl  of  suspi- 
cion had  darkened  his  fair  and  dauntless 
aspect.  Yet  she  had  kept  him  waiting  three 
hours  after  the  appointed  time  for  their 
meeting  that  night ;  and  there  remained  but 
three  weeks  more  in  all,  that  he  might  hope 
to  pass,  before  their  separation,  in  the  sun- 
shine of  her  darling  presence. 

Instead  of  following  the  crowd,  these  two 
rettirned  a  while  to  the  dancing-room,  where 
they  had  all  the  red  seats  to  themselves,  and 
where,  it  may  be  supposed,  Elizabeth  ex- 
plained to  him  the  cause  of  her  delay.  Her 
mother  did  not  return  to  them,  though  she 
had  greeted  her  daughter's  companion  with 
more  than  the  interest  of  a  friend ;  —  she  went 
on  with  the  rest,  and  was  unquestionably,  al- 
though so  late  risen,  the  star  of  the  evening. 
She  was  one  of  those  rare  natures  whose  fruit- 
age is  more  precious  than  their  flower ;  and  the 
spells  of  her  mature  mind  were  more  power- 
ful than  had  been  her  charms  in  youth.  Her 
imperial  form,  her  bright  complexion  and 
brighter  glance,  her  lips  cast  in  the  very 
mould  of  a  smile,  scarcely  formed  her  fasci- 
nation, or  more  than  veiled  with  their  im- 
pression the  stronger  one  of  her  dazzling 
talents ;  and  it  is  unquestionable,  that  but 
for  her  noble  nature,  generous  heart,  and 
delicate  reserve,  this   Lady   Delucy  would 


have  been  a  very  dangerous  person  —  and 
perhaps  herself  in  danger.  But  Heaven  had 
formed  her  in  a  holy,  as  Nature  in  a  happy 
hour,  and  she  beneficently  difiiised  her  influ- 
ence, as  a  summer  day  its  light.  Even 
beauty  has  a  beneficent  influence  when  it 
dwells  with  a  woman  framed  as  she.  For 
such  a  woman,  losing  her  husband  early,  and 
retaining  her  whole  grace  if  not  her  fresh- 
ness, and  gaining  the  full  experience  both 
social  and  intellectual,  from  a  studious  and 
refined  existence,  than  which,  to  the  inex- 
perienced, there  is  no  greater  attraction  :  — 
such  a  woman  has  it  in  her  power  to  afliect 
the  youthful  of  the  opposite  sex,  more  de- 
terminately  than  do  the  majority  of  their 
age,  in  her  own.  Such  a  one,  through 
thoughtlessness,  or  vanity,  or  ungoverned 
impulse,  —  called  by  the  cowardly  charitable, 
excitability,  —  may  injure  the  first  impres- 
sions of  women  formed  by  men  still  ignorant, 
and  rash  with  the  virgin  susceptil)ility  of 
youth,  —  and  even  if  her  own  reputation  be 
not  injured,  its  mortal  raiment  may  be 
smirched,  till  the  inward  brightness  fails,  , 
through  its  destined  medium,  to  flash  on  ^ 
mortal  eyes.  But  one  so  virtuous,  possessed, 
entirely  of  herself,  and  gay  with  conscious 
goodness,  is  an  ideal  of  maternity ;  all  the 
young  are  as  her  children,  and  if  they  call 
her  not  by  the  name  of  mother,  her  heart 
responds  as  such  to  theirs. 

Lady  Delucy  could  not  help  feeling  inter- 
ested m  every  young  man  present  who  was  a 
brother  ofticer  of  Colonel  Lyonhart,  to  whom 
her  daughter  was  affianced.  And  they  were 
one  and  all  bewitched  by  her ;  a  swarm  of 
them  behind  her  chair,  and  one  on  each 
hand,  and  several  across  the  table :  to  all 
these  she  listened  with  delight,  though  it  is 
possible  their  conversational  powers  were 
very  limited,  and  inferior  to  her  own.  But 
in  their  ruling  subject  of  discourse  her  heart 
and  hopes  were  bound  up.  They  all  sin- 
cerely admired,  the_  most  sincerely  liked, 
Charles  Lyonhart,  and  for  some  who  had 
served  with  him  or  under  him  already,  he 
was  an  actual  hero.  Tales  of  his  successful 
daring,  and  natural  power  over  those  sin- 
gular Eastern  aborigines  of  which  Europe 
talks  so  much  and  knows  so  little  ;  —  of  his 
simple  virtue  and  austere  self-reverence  ;  — 
assurances  of  his  iron  strength  and  iron  will, 
ahke  physically  and  morally  defying  for  him 
the  stimulant  climate ;  even  the  probable 
minutia;  of  the  voyage  and  journey  were 
grateful  to  her  ear.  Such  preoccupation 
accounted  for  the  fact,  that  she  neither  spoke 
to,  nor  specially  noticed,  any  other  of  the 
guests  at  the  other  tables  or  her  own. 

When  all  were  ready  to  dance  again,  and 
she  was  returning  to  the  ball-room,  rather 
anxious  for  fear  Elizabeth  and  her  friend 
should  be  rudely  disturbed,  she  happened  to 
brush  the  elbow  of  a  gentleman  just  inside 
the  door.  With  her  usual  amiability  she 
paused  and  would  have  apologized;  but  in- 


RUMOR. 


stead,  slie  started  back,  —  murmured,  "  Di- 
amid,"  in  a  tone  of  mingled  interest  and 
surprise ;  then  recovering  her  full  self-pos- 
session, she  held  out  her  hand  and  said  with 
great  cordiality,  "  I  did  not  know  you  had 
returned ;  —  why  did  you  not  send  me 
word  ?  " 

"  Here  is  the  reason,"  he  answered  in  a 
->proud  voice,  and  with  an  air  of  mingled  de- 
fiance and  delight ;  and  he  drew  forward  a 
young,  very  young  girl,  who  had  fallen  be-  i 
hind  him  wltile  Lady  Delucy  spoke,  "  Lady  i 
Geraldine  Albany ;  my  wife."  Again  the 
elder  lady  lost  her  self-command,  she 
started  and  flushed,  and  gazed  with  earnest 
wonder ;  there  soon  stood  tears  in  her  eyes. 
On  account  of  the  girl  herself,  such  tears 
M"ould  not  have  been  signs  of  too  exagger- 
ated interest,  drawn  from  a  maternal  heart. 
For  she  could  be  scarcely  more  than  a  child 
in  yeai-s,  yet  her  vivid  and  pictorial  loveli- 
ness, of  a  lofty  stamp  and  suggestion,  gave 
promise  of  great  power  and  gi-eater  pride  : 
power  to  suffer,  pride  to  endure ;  and  through 
all,  passion,  which  was  existence,  and  a  lov- 
ing nature  which  would  set  no  limits  to  its 
necessity  and  demand  for  love.  A  being  so 
far  above  the  gentle  average  of  her  sex,  that 
to  invest  her  too  early  with  the  estate  which 
is  either  the  crown  of  blessings  or  of  bur- 
dens, had  been  an  error,  if  not  a  deed  to 
merit  a  gi-aver  name,  on  the  parts  of  her 
parents  and  her  husband,  a  man  of  mature 
age,  and  into  whose  youth  had  been  crowded 
experience  and  adventure  such  as  seldom 
spread  over  an  entii-e  human  life  prolonged 
to  flirthest  age. 

Few  persons  besides  Lady  Delucy  would 
Rc  have  reasoned.  Others  would  have  found 
in  the  child's  extraordinary  beauty  a  charm- 
ing excuse  for  her  premature  social  exposi- 
tion. And  though  her  uncohscious  pride 
and  innocence  touched  Lady  Delucy,  she 
was  far  more  troubled  to  observe  her  unse- 
creted  devotion  to  the  man  who  def\"ing  its 
infimcy,  had  chained  her  soul  in  its  cradle. 
Yet  this  man  was  one  to  seem,  to  a  chance 
scrutiny,  as  interesting  a  person  as  his  bride. 
Delicacy  of  structure  gave  distinction  to  a 
figure  otherwise  insignificantly  small,  and 
the  whole  countenance  bore  the  impress  of 
sensibility,  sagacity  —  it  might  be  genius, 
yet  miglit  only  be  —  success. 

The  first  thought  for  the  beautiful  child, 
so  painful,  passed  into  another  and  a  peace- 
fuller  reflection  in  Lady  Delucy's  heart. 
•'  I  thank  God,"  she  thought,  "  that  I  had 
the  courage  to  prevent  my  child  from  leav- 
ing me  too  early."  Elizabeth  was  eighteen, 
yet  her  mother,  in  sanctioning  her  betrothal 
to  Colonel  Lyonhart,  had  refused  to  part 
with  her  for  three  years ;  ostensibly  on  ac- 
count of  the  ardent  and  exhausting  climate 
whither  service  sent  Charles  Lyonhart.  A 
deeper  prudence  also  might  have  justified 
such  a  refusal,  at  least  so  it  seemed  to  her 
St  this  moment. 


"  This  is  Lady  Delucy,"  said  Mi  Alban) 
to  his  wife,  after  introducing  her. 

"  Oh,  I  am  afraid  of  her !  "  said  the  child 
half  shrinking,  yet  smiling  too.  Then,  rais- 
ing her  glorious  eyes,  "  Diamid,  I  mean  Mr. 
Albany,  was  always  telling  me  abroad  how 
clever  and  severe  you  are,  and  how  hopeless 
it  was  for  me  to  think  you  would  ever  like 
me." 

"  Lady  Delucy  took  both  her  little  hands. 
"  You  are  a  sweet  young  lady,  but  how  is  it 
I  have  never  seen  you  before?  I  do  not 
even  know  your  old  name,  if  you  can  have 
any  thing  old  about  you." 

"  I  was  Geraldine  Hope,  Lord  Chevening 
is  my  father,  and  the  great  "William  Witt 
was  my  great  uncle.  Diamid  is  going  to 
take  me  to  see  his  tomb  in  Westminster 
Abbey ;  I  have  never  seen  it  yet." 

"  There  is  political  interest  for  you,  at 
least,"  exclaimed  Diamid  Albany,  with  an 
air  of  fondness.  "  As  for  your  not  seeing 
her,  that  is  not  strange,  for  no  one  has  seen 
her  here ;  she  is  no  English  heath-flower, 
■with  its  honey  bells  all  ready  for  the  wild 
bee.  And  I  married  her  from  the  nursery, 
which  she  falsely  fancied  was  a  school-room, 
where  she  was  spelling  out  words  and  mean- 
ings in  her  o\y\\  fashion,  so  ignorantly,  that 
I  was  touched  with  compassion,  and  took 
the  lesson  of  life  into  my  own  hands." 

Geraldine  yawned  like  a  baby.  "  Oh  Di- 
amid," she  whispered,  "  I  am  dreadfully 
sleepv ;  why  should  we  not  go  home,  as  you 
do  not  dance  ?  " 

"  And  do  you  not  dance  ?  "  inquired  Lady 
Delucy  ;  "  yours  at  least  is  the  dancing  age." 

"  Oh  no,'  no !  I  don't  care  for  dancing, 
and  detested  it  when  I  learned  :  I  never  was 
at  a  ball  before." 

"  I  am  very  glad  Mr.  Albany  dislikes 
dancing ;  it  is  quite  beneath  a  man  of  gen- 
ius. And  besides,"  added  the  little  crea- 
ture, Avith  a  c}Tiicism  rather  plaintive  than 
amusing,  "  there  is  not  a  single  man  in  the 
room  I  should  choose  to  dance  with ;  they 
all  look  like  fools.  No  loise  man  would 
dance,  I  think  it  such  a  waste  of  time." 

"  Why  a  greater  waste  of  time  to  dance 
than  to"  look  on  dancing?"  asked  Lady 
Delucy. 

"  He  was  obliged  to  come,"  she  whis- 
pered ;  "  he  hates  them  all,  and  so  do  L 
But  Mr.  Pm-ves  is  to  be  his  brother  mem- 
ber, at  least  he  hopes  so,  and  he  wishes  to 
conciliate  him.  Diamid  has  been  talking  to 
him  all  the  evening,  and  I,  all  the  time  in  a 
dream,  talked  nonsense  in  my  sleep  to  Mrs. 
Purves." 

"  Why,  you  are  a  better  politician  than  I, 
Diamid  :  you  must  know  I  always  call  him 
Diamid;  "he  is  as  a  son  to  me;  Diamid 
coming  in  for  the  county  ?  I  am  much  sur- 
prised." 

"It  is  papa  who  has  done  it,  and  his 
friends  ;  papa  quite  worships  Diamid." 

"  Geraldine,"  he  broke  in,  "  you  ai-e  very 


RUMOR. 


dred,  you  say  ;  you  have  done  more  than  I 
isked  you.     Let  us  go  home." 

"  Will  you  let  me  come  and  see  you  very 
ioon  ?  "  asked  Geraldine  of  Lady  Delucy. 
"  May  I  come  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  To-morrow  !  "  said  her  husband.  "  What 
an  audacious  little  goddess  thou  art.  Lady 
Delucy  never  has  a  minute  for  her  friends, 
tier  cases  for  bounty  are  so  numerous." 

"  But  I  am  a  case  for  her  bounty,  what 
else  ?  And  I  am  not  afraid  of  her,  though 
you  said  I  should  be.  May  I  come  to-mor- 
row ?  For  Diamid  is  going  out ;  for  the 
first  time  he  will  leave  me,  and  I  shall  not 
be  able  to  bear " 

"  Let  her  come  then,"  said  her  husband, 
ohiefly  to  stop  the  sentence  short. 

"  Yes,  do  come,  Lady  Geraldine.  I  shall 
Oe  alone  in  the  morning,  and  though  my 
daughter  will  be  engaged,  yet  I  think  an  old 
lady  can  entertain  you,  who  remembers  your 
husband  as  a  little  boy,  and  a  very  pretty 
little  boy  too." 

"  But  before  your  taste  was  formed,  when 
you  were  only  a  pretty  little  girl,"  added 
Diamid  Albany.  At  these  'Words,  few  and 
foolish  enough.  Lady  Delucy  smiled,  but 
with  a  sort  of  scorn  that  made  fuller  her 
lip  and  glanced  in  lightning  from  her  sunny 
eyes.  Then  Diamid,  as  though  afraid  that 
scorn  should  strike  wonder  from  his  young 
wife's  mind,  did  she  perceive  it,  drew  her 
hand  hastily  to  his  arm.  "  Good  night," 
said  Geraldine,  her  face  suffused,  and  beam- 
ing with  the  happiness  she  had  not  yet 
learned  to  hide  from  men. 


CHAPTER  in. 

"  You  will  come  with  us  to-night  ?  "  said 
Lady  I^elucy  to  Charles  Lyonhart. 

"  She  ft^asts  me  to-day  that  I  may  starve 
)n  scraps  to-morrow,"  he  answered  gayly,  at 
east  in  a  manner  that  would  be  gay,  what- 
iver  it»  master  coidd  not  feel.  On  the  way 
lome  it  Avas  perhaps  as  well  that  Lady  De- 
ucy  was  in  a  reverie  of  her  own,  or  she 
night  too  rudely  have  disturbed  theirs  —  by 
.•emarking  it.  For  they  did  not  speak,  hav- 
ng  long  since  passed  that  stage  of  affiance- 
ihip,  when  persons  are  studying  each  other's 
3haracters  through  the  medium  of  conversa- 
tion, and  at  no  time  had  the  young  soldier 
been  a  man  great  in  words.  His  sentences, 
few  and  epigrammatic,  and  thundered  in 
trenchant  tones  from  lips  to  whose  expres- 
sion his  eagle  glance  lent  double  energy,  had 
Dnce,  nay  twice  already,  conquered  without 
a  sword ;  but  his  pulses,  once  touched  by 
love  at  the  quivering  heart-spring,  lapsed 
into  a  strong,  calm  current,  unconscious  of 
control.  The  condition  of  war  lashed  his 
mettle   as  the  bray  of  the  trumpet  that  of 


the  war-steed  ;  the  condition  of  peace  made 
him  gentle  to  love,  even  with  a  gentlenesa 
that  passed  the  love  of  women.  He  was 
one  of  the  few  who  may  safely  be  prejudged 
as  constant ;  who,  having  chosen  a  calling, 
never  know  in  it  caprice  or  change  ;  or,  hav- 
ing found  a  heart  to  rest  on,  never  weary  of 
repose. 

When  the  three  reached  home.  Lady  De- 
lucy, late  as  it  was,  or  rather  early  in  ilie 
morning,  could  not  find  it  in  her  heart  to 
forbid  Elizabeth  and  her  lover  their  farewell 
beneath  the  stars,  for  the  moon  had  set,  and 
the  first  phantom  of  Oriental  glory  glowed 
at  the  gates  of  day.  And  those  divine  eyes, 
whether  they  watch  from  unpeopled  worlds 
in  light  alone,  or  with  the  light  of  spirits, 
never  looked  down,  since  the  world  was  in 
its  cradle,  on  two  souls  who  sinned  less 
against  love  in  loving.  Never  one  word  of 
complaint  passed  his  lips,  nor  found  breath 
in  his  sighs,  when  in  her  presence  ;  he  seemed 
resolved  to  sweeten  the  bitter  of  separation 
for  her,  by  leaving  with  her  none  but  bHssful 
memories. 

Elizabeth  slept  with  her  mother  as  she 
had  ever  done  since  the  night  she  was  born. 
When  at  last  they  lay  down  side  by  side,  to 
rest  an  hour  or  two,  the  mother  and  daugh- 
ter found  it  alike  each,  impossible  to  sleep. 

"  It  is  the  t\vitter  of  the  birds  just  waking 
up  I  think,  mamma,"  said  Elizabeth,  "  and 
the  feelinc/  that  it  is  getting  lighter  and  lighter 
every  instant,  though  one  can't  see  it  for  the 
shutters.  It  is  very  hard  to  sleep  in  the 
light,  except  when  one  is  sick." 

"  If  you  really  won't  try,  then,  I  will  tell 
you  a  piece  of  intelligence  which  will  sur- 
prise you,  and  I  hope  please  you  too." 

"  Pray  tell  me  mamma,  I  thought  you 
looked  as  if  you  had  heard  something 
strange,  or  something  strange  had  hap- 
pened." 

The  mother's  face  was  turned  away,  a 
warm  flush  colored  it,  which  she  would  have 
feared  might  be  seen,  even  with  closed  shut- 
ters, and  by  the  light  of  a  shaded  lamp. 

"  Diamid  is  married,  that  is  all,  but  it  is 
something  new,  is  it  not  ?  " 

As  warm  a  glory  covered  the  daughter's 
face,  but  she  did  not  turn  it  away  ;  she  half 
sat  up  in  bed.  "  Married,  Diamid  married  ? 
how  ridiculous  I  have  been  !  how  cruelly  I 
am  disappointed.  Are  you  quite  sure  ?  you 
know  they  always  will  tell  stories  about  Di- 
amid ;  1  do  not  believe  it,  and  you  cannot." 

"  Is  it  possible  that  you  did  not  see  him 
to-night  ?  " 

"  See  him,  no.  Was  he  there  ?  did  he 
tell  you  himself  ?  " 

"She  was  there  with  him,  I  saw  her." 

"  What  and  who  is  she  ?  " 

"  Lord  Chevening's  daughter,  a  child  who 
can  scarcely  have  seen  sixteen." 

"  What  can  Lord  Chevening  have  been 
about  ?  How  unlike  him,  with  his  rational 
ideas,   and   worldly    prudence !     I    thought 


8 


RUMOR. 


..here  was  something  odd  too  about  their 
shild,  that  she  was  not  to  be  seen  abroad,  or 
something." 

"  That  I  do  not  know,  but  I  know  the 
Chevening  party  must  have  been  trying  to 
win  over  Diamid  ;  he  is  to  be  returned  for 
the  county  too.  At  all  events  he  does  not 
treat  her  as  though  any  interest  save  that  of 
feehng  had  been  at  work  within  him,  and 
that  I  am  very  glad  to  see.  He  is  very  fond 
and  khid." 

"  That  is  imjjossible,  mamma,  whatever  he 
has  done,  for  six  months  ago  —  " 

'*  —  Six  months  ago,  Charles  came  home, 
Elizabeth." 

"  Mother,  you  are  cruel  to  me  ;  had  it  not 
been  for  Charlie,  who  has  taught  me  all  I 
know  on  the  great  subject,  I  should  not  have 
been  so  certain.  But  1  did  think  he  —  I 
mean  Diamid — went  away  only  on  ]n-obation ; 
I  thought  he  would  come  back,  and  that  then 
—  or  perhaps  when  I  was  gone  —  But,  cer- 
tainly, that  would  be  so  long  to  wait." 

Only  these  words  Avere  bitter,  not  their 
tone.  How  long  was  it  to  be  ?  Three 
years,  her  mother  had  decreed  ;  but  forebod- 
ing eclipsed  faith,  and  in  the  dreary  shadow 
the  years  M-ere  magnified,  seemed  to  s])read 
to  the  impossible's  blank  verge.  Her  mother 
dared  not  comfort  her,  because  the  only  con- 
solation she  could  have  bestowed  was  one 
she  dared  not  offer.  This  dailing  passion  of 
her  motherhood,  her  single  permitted  love, 
she  had  destroyed  as  an  idol,  when  she  gav.e 
promises  that  she  should  leave  her  side  — 
when  she  felt  that  she  held  her  in  trust  for 
another,  who  would  carry  her  away  whither 
her  own  sphere  of  social  and  private  duties 
could  not  in  conscience  be  removed.  The 
separation  would  be  complete  when  it  came, 
except  in  that  spiritual  sense  so  much  more 
painful  to  spirits  in  prison  of  the  flesh,  than 
to  those  whom  death  has  divided  the  one 
from  the  other.  People  called  this  mother 
selfish,  prim,  eccentric,  even  unnatural.  Per- 
haps her  own  child  was  constrained  in  her 
demeanoi'  and  her  affection  by  the  course 
which  they  ridiculed.  But  it  made  no  dif- 
ference to  her,  she  believed  that  she  was 
doing  right,  and  it  is  not  too  much  to  say, 
that  she  suftered  much  more  than  her  child 
in  carrying  out  her  own  decision.  Eliza- 
beth's frame  was  as  fragile  as  her  mind  was 
strong,  and  like  all  the  intellectual  who  are 
Aveak  in  body,  she  had  a  spirit  whose  power 
deceived  herself.  She  thought  she  could 
bear  any  thing  —  fever,  miasma,  fatigue, 
watching  —  she  was  sure  that  the  dead  mid- 
Indian  heats  would  be  delightful,  because,  in 
England,  she  loved  the  summer  best.  But 
EHzabeth  believed  herself  capable  of  bear- 
ing any  thing,  just  because  she  had  never 
had  any  thing  to  bear  ;  luxury,  repose;  ease, 
blended  in  her  experience  ;  and  her  delicate 
nealth,  her  nervous  sensibility,  acted  on  only 
Dy  the  most  delicate  impressions,  and  by 
every   association   that   could    soothe    and 


charm,  had  actually  been  the  medium  of  en« 
joyment  only,  or  of  excitement  more  glorioui 
than   joy. 

Her  mother  knew  this,  and  knew  also, 
what  a  long  dream  of  misery  is  life  from 
which  health's  bloom  has  been  brushed  — ■ 
that  irreparable  bloom ;  and  how  far  more 
terrible  is  the  doom  of  those  in  whom  the 
nerve  life  has  been  untoned.  A  spring 
which  can  never  again  respond  to  the  full 
necessity  of  the  hour,  and  which  ever  fails 
when  the  demand  is  greatest  on  it  —  if  once 
over-strained  —  if  indeed  it  he  not  broken. 

Still  the  mother  could  not  be  certain,  that 
her  child's  full  womanhood  would  be  stronger 
than  her  early  youth  —  she  could  only  hope 
so,  and  strive  after  such  a  result  as  much  as 
a  mother  and  a  mortal  may. 

But  being  a  perfect  woman  she  was  not, 
therefore,  a  perfect  person ;  nor  did  she 
think  herself  one,  nor  fancy,  because  her 
talents  were  so  fine  and  varied,  that  the 
winged  genius  had  made  his  nest  in  her 
soul.  The  balance  between  her  cherished 
inde])endence  of  thought  and  feeling  and 
the  indwelling  principle  of  duty  which  ruled 
her  actions,  made  her  remarkable,  for  such  a 
balance  is  rare. 

It  had  been  to  her  mind's  expansion  a 
great  advantage  that  she  was  not  born  in  the 
rank  she  occupied  now,  and  which  she  was 
most  unexpectedly  called  to  take.  Still  she 
was  of  descent  which  is  called  res])cctable, 
in  society,  being  the  only  child  of  a  mer- 
chant whose  family  had  for  ages  trafficked 
with  the  merchants  of  the  East,  whether  for 
fruits,  drugs,  or  perfumes,  it  little  signifies. 
He  Avas  often  called  to  the  Levant,  and  there 
he  married  the  daughter  of  a  Levantine 
merchant,  his  ally  ;  it  was  said  that  her  dow- 
ry was  accepted  in  consideration  of  payment 
for  a  debt.  It  is  certain,  that  he  was  the 
last  person  that  should  have  so  married,  for 
he  was  eminently  English,  in  habit,  thought 
and  belief;  hard-headed,  and  not  much  soft- 
er-hearted ;  rigidly,  if  narrowly,  educated ; 
sharp-seeing  in  his  own  business ;  intellect- 
ually blind ;  and  as  prejudiced  as  he  was 
practical,  his  practice  being  routine  in  ordi- 
nary rounds,  not  perseverance  in  any  new- 
detected  principle.  Yet  being  the  last  persoi 
who  should  have  done  it,  he  was  on  that 
very  account  the  first  to  do  it ;  and  in  sc 
doing  he  gratified  his  innate  obstinacy  at  the 
expense  of  the  approbation  of  his  English 
friends,  and  his  wife,  very  beautiful  in  the 
first  instance,  gratified  his  carnal  impulse  at 
the  expense  of  her  after-happiness,  or  pos- 
sible improvement  —  for  such  impulses  are 
ever  without  moral  fruition. 

There  is  nothing  so  painful,  because  noth- 
ing so  unnatural  and  inconsistent,  as  the 
position  of  an  Oriental,  it  matters  not  of 
what  race,  or  degree  of  capacity,  under  a 
northern  sun ;  in  the  country  of  the  north 
most  civilized,  the  more  especially.  It  is 
more  cruel  to  bring  such  liither  to  live,  oi 


KUMOR. 


rather  to  exist  in  a  condition  whose  vitality 
is  far  below  that  of  vegetation,  than  to  kill 
them  in  their  own  country ;  but  of  course 
no  one  who  has  not  so  suffered,  will  agree 
to  this.  However,  this  lady  suffered  intense- 
ly, although  her  instincts  had  not  been  refined 
Sy  education  into  aspirations,  nor  her  mind 
sufficiently  opened  to  desire  such  cultivation, 
of  the  only  kind  she  could  have  here  re- 
ceived. The  languor  which  seemed  to  swathe 
her  faculties,  might  have  been  penetrated  by 
influences  of  knowledge  in  her  own  natural 
home,  but  here  they  lay  unconscious,  not  as 
in  a  chance  swoon,  but  a  perpetual  hiberna- 
tion. It  was  not  marvellous  that  this  mo- 
notonous existence  should  shock  the  realist 
and  doer,"  should  seem  a  moral  monstrosity, 
under  the  pale  broad  daylight  that  shines 
on  mechanical  perfection,  in  a  land  whose 
ground  throbs,  and  whose  echoes  pant  with 
the  pulses  of  the  giant  progress. 

She  made  no  friends,  and  as  a  friend  lost 
her  husband,  who  did  not  misuse  her  bodily, 
because  he  valued  his  class  reputation,  and 
had  the  conscience,  stingingly  sensitive,  of 
the  sectarian.  So  she  sank  into  profounder 
depths  of  indolent  repose,  the  abuse  of  that 
which  was  in  moderation  as  necessary  to  her 
as  the  siesta  to  the  southern,  the  melting 
bath  to  the  Turk,  and  the  dream-drugged 
atmosphere  of  the  divan,  to  the  whole 
Oriental  world.  But  this  lady  did  not 
smoke,  because  her  husband  had  told  her 
when  he  brought  her  to  England,  that  it 
is  not  here  becoming,  and  to  her  was  nat- 
ural that  slavish  obedience,  which  is  even 
touching  because  it  is  so  implicit.  Very 
early  she  became  Christianized  for  the  same 
reason,  it  was  so  natural  to  her  to  yield  be- 
lief, she  received  the  faith  of  the  greatest  of 
ensamples  with  the  unquestioning  readiness 
peculiar  to  the  child  and  the  slave.  She 
was  even  anxious  that  her  only  child  should 
be  early  imbued  with  what  she  had  been  told 
to  believe,  and  therefore  believed,  as  she  did 
not  do  what  her  husband  forbade  her,  be- 
cause he  was  her  husband  ;  and  for  the  same 
reason,  because  he  ordered  it,  she  called  her 
child  by  the  two  commonest  of  the  many 
common  Christian  names  which  are  natural- 
ized in  England,  though  her  own  flowery, 
figurative  tongue  presented  many  a  musical, 
symbolic,  poetic  name  to  tempt  her.  So 
Elizabeth  Mary  were  the  names  she  gave 
her  infant.  Her  first  English  winter  saw 
this  infant's  birth,  and  the  hard  cold  was 
little  likely  to  restore  her  nervous  tone  or 
physical  strength  ;  she  never  recovered 
either ;  neither  sedatives,  nor  stimulants 
prescribed  by  English  physicians,  affected 
her  in  the  least,  because  she  was  cut  off 
from  the  only  ones  that  could  affect  such  a 
constitution  —  climate  and  tobacco. 

Between  such  a  father  and  such  a  mother 
he  child  early  learned  what  few  children 
even  imagine,  that  there  are  vast  differences 
between  persons,  characters,  and  conditions. 


Her  father,  without  meaning  exactly  to  ac- 
complish such  a  result,  held  up  her  mother 
to  her  as  contemptible,  because  ignorant  of 
what  persons  round  her  knew.  He  taught 
Elizabeth  to  return  thanks  in  her  prayers 
that  she  had  been  born  in  England,  with  a 
father  who  was  neither  Jew,  Turk,  infidel,  nor 
heretic,  whatever  her  mother  might  be.  To 
be  grateful  for  the  existent  social  code  which 
raises  a  child  to  its  father's  position,  what- 
ever its  mother's  may  have  been.  He  gave 
her  governesses  and  masters,  with  certifi- 
cates from  college  and  employer.  They 
taught  her  all  they  knew ;  her  mind  was 
very  quick  to  receive,  but  she  could  not 
retain  all,  only  the  best  part,  that  is,  the  ex- 
ercise of  the  memory  aroused  the  thinking 
faculties. 

But  her  greatest  pleasure,  a  sort  of  de- 
lightful dream  that  she  dreamed  every  day 
at  a  certain  hour,  was  to  go  and  see  her 
mother ;  her  father  set  apart  one  regular 
time  for  this  filial  and  maternal  interchange 
of  intercourse,  because  it  was  proper,  and 
religious,  that  a  child  should  honor  both  her 
parents.  So  she  paid  her  visits  to  the  large 
room,  filled  with  overpowering,  melting  heat 
from  two  large  ornamented  stoves,  filled  with 
dim  light  from  low-hanging  lamps,  even  at 
noonday,  because  to  exclude  the  draughts 
thick  crimson  curtains  fell  always  over  the 
shuttered  windows.  No  chairs  nor  table 
furnished  the  room,  only  piles  of  cushions, 
in  the  midst  of  a  heap  of  which  her  mother 
reclined  by  day  and  on  which  she  slept  at 
night.  Always  sumptuously  attired  in  glit- 
tering stuffs  and  gorgeous  shawls,  her  dark 
skin  lighted  up  by  blinding  jewels  ;  and 
featured  delicately,  with  her  moony  eyes  and 
soft,  slow  motions,  she  captivated  her  child's 
fancy,  naturally  a  brilliant  one,  and  it  was 
only  in  her  child's  presence  that  she  was 
ever  known  to  talk.  When  they  were  alone 
together,  and  Elizabeth  coaxed  her  and  ca- 
ressed, she  Avould  now  and  then  tell  her 
about  the  land  whence  she  had  been  brought; 
the  mosques,  the  palaces,  the  palms ;  the 
bazaar  and  the  harem ;  the  fountains,  flow- 
ers, and  skies.  Perhaps,  had  her  father 
heard  these  confidences,  made  in  broken 
Englisli,  helped  out  with  racy  idiom  and 
translated  proverb,  he  would  have  forbidden 
his  wife  to  talk  upon  the  subject  to  his 
daughter,  but  he  was  scarcely  ever  present, 
and  when  so  her  voice  was  silent,  she  hardly 
even  whispered  to  him  greeting  and  fare- 
well. Elizabeth  kept  them  to  herself,  mere- 
ly because  she  did  not  think  they  would 
interest  her  father,  and  yet  they  were  always 
in  her  thoughts,  and  the  gladdest  day  of  all 
her  youngest  life  was  that  on  which  she 
found  a  copy  of  the  Arabian  Nights  in  the 
library. 

Her  father,  who  seldom  had  either  time  or 
inclination  to  take  her  out  with  him,  was  so 
delighted  with  a  long  letter,  half  in  French, 
and  half  in  Italian,  with  a  Latin  postscript, 


10 


"RUMOR. 


written  to  him  by  her  the  Christmas  she  was 
fourteen,  that  he  took  her  to  see  a  panto- 
mime. From  that  hour  she  had  an  aim  in 
life ;  she  was  always  dreaming,  yet  perform- 
ing in  her  dreams  ;  the  creative  faculty  was 
routed,  and  by  its  instantaneous  reciproca- 
tion the  artistic  mhid  was  revealed  to  itself. 
Her  father,  discovering  her  enthusastic  de- 
light when  on  different  occasions  he  took  her 
to  the  theatre  with  him  afterwards,  imme- 
diately curtailed  her  enjoyments  in  that  line, 
began  to  have  grave  doubts  whether  it  was 
proper  a  taste  so  decided  should  be  encour- 
aged, at  last  drew  a  line,  as  he  expressed  it, 
and  only  allowed  her  to  hear  a  play  of 
Shakspeare's  twice  a  year,  and  those  always 
historical  ones.  But  even  few  and  far  be- 
tween, those  were  angel  visits  to  her. 

Her  progressive  mind  affected  not  her 
innocence  of  heart.  She  even  clung  more 
and  more  to  her  helpless  mother,  and  once 
entreated  her  father  to  try  a  change  of  cli- 
mate to  her  own  coinitry,  for  her  mother's 
health.  But  her  father  answered,  "  She 
does  not  wish  it,  she  has  never  asked  me, 
and  it  would  make  her  suffer  more  to  be 
disturbed."  Nor  had  she  ever  confessed 
it  to  her  child ;  her  pride  was  the  pride  of 
the  Eastern,  the  most  stubborn  in  the 
world. 

When  Elizabeth  was  twenty-one,  there 
occurred  a  crisis  in  commerce,  one  of  those 
climaxes  which  are  sudden  prosperity  to  a 
few,  to  the  many  the  crush  of  ruin,  and 
which  seem  periodical,  like  war  and  epi- 
demy  —  perhaps  necessary  for  the  expurga- 
tion of  men's  minds  from  the  lust  of  luxury 
and  over-confidence.  Her  father,  who, 
though  not  speculative,  kept  all  his  capital 
afloat,  lost  all  in  the  losses  of  others  richer 
than  himself.  There  only  remained  a  small 
sum,  about  five  hundred  pounds,  which  he 
had  reserved  as  a  present  for  his  daughter 
on  her  coming  of  age  —  and  this  she  had 
just  received  ;  she  placed  more  than  half  in 
her  father's  hands,  he  knew  not  what  she 
meant  to  do  Avith  the  rest,  but  she  only  be- 
sought him  not  to  move  from  his  house,  for 
a  few  months,  because  her  mother  was  ac- 
customed to  it. 

--^^Bhe  had  made  up  her  mind  in  a  moment ; 
and  was  sanguine  of  success,  as  the  pure  in 
purpose,  full  of  conscious  poM-er,  have  a 
right  to  be.  A  chief  theatrical  manager  of 
that  day,  was  as  remarkable  for  discernment 
and  benevolence,  as  for  talent  and  popular- 
ity, and  it  was  to  him  she  went,  confided  her 
scheme,  and  was  received  by  him  as  his  own 
pupil,  a  rare  honor,  but  well  deserved.  She 
studied  with  ardor,  persistency,  and  indus- 
try, which  those  who  sneer  at  the  dramatic 
calling  ;.s  an  amu::ement  (I'ke  novel-v. liting) 
might  have  found  it  impossible  to  exert  in 
their  own  worldly  business.  She  worked  so 
hard  that  her  master,  unflinching  as  he  was 
in  ordinary  cases,  gave  her  the  credentials  for 
public  initiation  at  the  end  of  three  months, 


together  with  a  parting  boon  of  encouraging 
words,  such  as  had  never  been  the  verdict 
of  his  lips  before.  In  fact  she  owed  much 
to  her  previous  mental  cultivation,  and  so 
he  told  her ;  but  she  owed  the  most  to  a 
singularly  serene  disposition,  which  quelled 
insurgent  excitability,  and  lent  her  self-con- 
trol in  action,  which  it  is  the  work  of  years 
artificially  to  attain.  When  every  thing  was 
settled  between  the  manager  and  master, 
now  her  employer  and  friend,  she  told  her 
father  of  her  sclieme,  secreted  until  perfect, 
for  their  subsistence  as  a  family,  through  hei 
newly  developed  art.  Only  an  English 
father  would  have  outraged  a  child's  tender- 
ness and  devotion  as  he  did,  in  return  for 
her  confidence.  Instead  of  giving  her 
strength  by  his  approving  smile,  sti-ength 
very  needful  to  one  whose  excessive  mod- 
esty was  the  only  possible  enemy  to  her 
success,  he  raved,  and  stormed  vith  rage, 
only  impotent  because  it  could  find  no  real 
basis,  and  when  the  heat  of  the  mood  had 
subsided  to  a  calm  more  cruel,  he  tried  to 
argue  without  actual  premises,  and  darkened 
his  counsel  by  words  without  knowledge,  till 
his  fury  turned  against  himself,  and  doubly 
aggravated  his  insane  anger  towards  his 
child.  He  commanded  her  to  relinquish  her 
design  on  the  pain  of  excommunication  from 
his  thoughts  and  love ;  and  this  final  utter- 
ance in  its  cool  measured  tones,  dried  up  the 
tears  Avhich  his  harsher  heat  had  drawn  from 
the  stricken  rock,  for  firm  as  a  rock  remained 
her  rooted  intention,  though  she  suffered 
to  the  full  as  bitterly  as  he  had  meant  she 
should.  But  it  was  a  false  sense  of  duty, 
the  name,  against  the  true  sense  of  duty, 
the  necessity,  and  that  sufficed ;  conscience 
against  prejudice  prevailed.  She  knew  that 
else  they  must  starve,  that  her  mother  must 
perish  if  forced  into  less  luxurious  routine, 
that  her  father's  head  was  white  with  his 
early  winter,  creeping  on  his  barren  autumn. 
She"  knew  that  none  other  of  her  talents,  nor 
all  his  business  habits  could  gain  employ- 
ment which  should  even  supply  them  Avith 
bread,  much  less  sustain  her  mother  in  her 
needful  ease. 

So  she  went  to  work  Avithout  his  blessing, 
which  she  was  innocent  enough  to  covet,  and 
in  the  face  of  the  disapprobation  and  con- 
tempt of  all  her  relations  and  acquaintances 
besides.  These  last,  with  the  usual  incon- 
sistency of  such  persons,  all  went  to  witness 
her  fu-st  public  performance,  applauded  her 
in  the  theatre,  and  went  home  and  slandered 
her  to  their  heart's  content. 

But  her  f\uher  never  went  to  see  her  and 
hear  her,  never  mentioned  her  objectionable 
calling,  nor  confessed  himself  indebted  to  her 
in  the  least  degree.  Yet  he  ate  of  h".'r  bread, 
and  drank  of  her  cup,  and  was  to  her  as  a 
father  still,  though  he  treated  her  no  longer 
as  a  child.  So,  without  a  father's  sanction, 
the  most  sacred  save  that  of  conscience,  ot 
a  mother's  presence  and  protection,  she  wa< 


RUMOR, 


exposed  to  the  roughest  of  all  the  tides  of 
opxiiion,  and  breasted  its  breakers  by  her 
own  strength  alone.  For  three  years  it  pre- 
vailed, her  reputation  remained  as  pure  as 
her  fame  was  fresh,  and  but  for  lier  reticence 
of  demeanor,  her  triumphs  might  have  drawn 
envy  from  her  inferiors.  At  the  end  of  that 
time  too  she  would  have  been  rich,  but  for 
her  double  burden  of  filial  love  and  duty. 

A  young  man  of  what  is  called  high  birth, 
but  ill-bred,  worse-principled,  and  vicious 
most  of  all,  happened  to  turn  towards  her 
his  roving  eyes,  and  unhappily  she  fixed 
them.  Her  stately  sweetness,  and  excelling 
character,  excited  hira  to  attempt  an  adven- 
ture, which  none  but  he  would  have  dared  to 
dream  of,  mueii  less  to  undertake.  And  he 
failed  at  the  very  outset,  nor  could  he  suc- 
ceed in  obtaining  a  single  interview  ;  and  all 
his  letters  were  returned  unopened,  except 
the  first  one,  which  had  been  opened  without 
sus})icion  of  its  contents.  Through  a  false 
heart  he  could  afford  to  act  falsely  without 
compunction,  and  the  false  unfaltering  tongue 
assisted  his  revenge.  First  in  one  ear  alone 
he  Ijreathed  the  lie,  reversing  every  circum- 
stance ;  hers  the  dawning  interest,  the  de- 
voted attention,  the  insinuating  correspond- 
ence ;  the  crowning  fact,  —  the  crooning 
falsehood,  —  her  ardent  and  uncontrollable 
attachment,  declared  and  gratified,  but  grati- 
fied only  with  the  calm  facility  and  freedom 
of  a  man  of  fashion.  This  tale,  told  to  one 
person  under  a  half-promise  of  secrecy,  made 
and  received  by  two  persons  alike  dishonor- 
able, very  soon  spread,  first  in  whispered 
hints  of  abhorrent  deeds,  soon  a  bruit  of  de- 
graded purity,  at  last  a  belief  in  it  that  could 
not.  because  it  would  not,  be  shaken. 

Unfortunately  it  was  while  she  was  absent 
from  her  usual  home,  spending  a  few  weeks 
to  rest  and  recruit  in  country  air  during  a 
needful  suspension  of  her  engagements,  that 
her  father  heard  the  report,  and  believed  it, 
so  true  is  it  if  men  M'iii,  they  are  allowed  to 
harden  their  own  hearts. 

He  impotently  resolved  never  to  see  her 
again,  and  wrote  to  tell  her  so,  darkening 
still  more  blackly  the  fair  page  so  sullied,  by 
curses  as  impotent  as  the  resolution.  15ut 
she  was  weak  enough  to  be  made  ill  by  that 
letter ;  ratlier  innocent  enough,  filial  enough, 
and  new  enough  to  life,  with  its  tests  the 
most  austere  and  awful  always  for  the  purest. 
She  was  so  ill,  she  could  not  answer  it,  could 
not  rebut  the  charge ;  by  which  worldly 
women  would  only  have  been  made  strong 
with  indignation,  but  which  prostrated  her 
physically,  stunned  her  mentally;  effects 
which  served  to  convince  people  more  and 
more  that  the  charge  was  a  true  one. 

A  week  after  this  letter  had  been  sent,  her 
father,  who  had  not  left  her  house  yet, 
despite  his  intention  never  to  see  her  again, 
was  sitting  in  his  room  with  a  countenance 
grim  and  pale,  but  past  repentance  as  he 
was,  serving  only  to  suggest  remorse.     A 


11 


gentleman  was  announx^L  and  entered  ;  b 
white-haired    man,     plaiii-^Jteed,    .dignified; 
who  pulled  out  a  card,  threw  it  on  The  tabtej^' 
and,  still  standing  though  requested  to  take 
a  seat,  said  calmly,  "  I  have  come  formally 
to  obtain  a  formal  consent  to  my  intended 
proposals  for  your  daughter's  hand.     As  a 
matter  of  form  I  say,  merely,  for  it  is  other- 
wise of  no  value.     I  am   of  age  to  be  her 
father,  as  well  as  in  a  position  to  protect  her  _ 
as  a  husband  from   her  own  parent  —  and," 
more  unhappy  parent  than  you  have  dared 
to  assume  yourself!  from  my  own  son." 

The  father  to  Avhom  he  spoke  turned  so 
deadly  pale  with  the  reaction  of  nature 
shamefully  repressed,  that  the  visitor  w  is 
obliged  to  ring  the  bell  for  water,  though  he 
showed  no  compassion  when  a  more  death- 
like SWOOP  ensued.  He  might  have  felt 
compassion,  for  he  was  easily  moved  towards 
it,  had  he  not  detected  the  glance  of  unholy 
triumph,  and  lustful  pride,  when  his  own 
name  -was  read  by  the  other  on  the  card  he 
had  thrown  down.  For,  truly  virtuous, 
though  exclusive  and  proud  enough  in  his 
own  fashion,  the  Earl  Delucy  valued  his 
own  character  above  his  rank,  and  as  for  his 
family  history,  he  would  only  have  been 
thankful  to  have  the  last  page  erased  and  to 
throw  the  book  into  the  fu-e  ;  so  terrible  to 
his  heart  and  his  faith  Avas  its  necessary 
record,  the  useless,  vicious,  and  abominable 
character  and  career  of  his  only  son.  It 
had  been  some  time  before  the  report  of 
Elizabeth's  degradation  had  reached  him, 
still  longer  before  he  learned  that  his  own 
son  had  first  given  utterance  to  it,  and  pre- 
tended she  was  his  own  victim.  Lord  Delucy 
had  only  seen  her  once  or  twice ;  he  was  no 
play-goer,  but  the  profoundest  Shaksperian 
student  could  not  have  possessed  more  dis- 
crimination of  character  ;  and  when  he  heard 
she  was  ill  he  went  to  see  her  himself,  and 
in  the  presence  of  two  physicians  whom  he 
forced  to  accompany  him,  and  a  nurse  who 
had  been  hastily  provided,  he  assured  her  of 
his  unshaken  faith  in  her  goodness  and  her 
innocence.  That  assurance  was  to  her  re- 
vival, and  saved  her  from  the  grave,  Mhere 
very  likely  her  reputation  would  have  been 
lost  forever  for  those  still  living,  who,  ])er- 
haps  to  spite  etiquette,  which  prescribes  that 
of  those  departed  only  good  must  be  spoken, 
are  remarkably  fond  of  thinking  evil  of  the 
same. 

Elizabeth  really  married  Lord  Delucy  out 
of  gratitude ;  no  other  sentiment  could  find 
room  within,  and  as  for  passion,  she  shrank 
from  the  very  name  with  a  terror  only  par- 
donable in  one  who  had  suffered  so  desper- 
ately from  its  simulation.  Her  gratitude, 
sincere,  boundless,  and  devoted,  dwelt  alone 
in  her  heart,  filled  up  the  measure  of  her 
thankfulness  to  Heaven,  whom  first  she 
thanked.  But  no  colder  shrine  than  her 
spirit  ever  guarded  from  the  wanton  wind 
th«  vestal  flame.     She  felt  that  happiness  la 


12 


RUMOR. 


its  primitive  purity  could  never  affect   her  | 
now,  and  that  Love  was  a  severer  ^rieud  than  | 
she  had  deemed  him.    In  her  duty  she  never  [ 
failed  any  more  than  in  her  gratitude,  and  in  I 
her  duty  she  must  have  been  perfect,  for  her 
husband  never  missed  any  thing  in  her,  neither 
passion,  nor  love,  nor  even  happiness.     Her 
light   ste]),   her    sunny  smile,   her    faithful 
breast,  at  least  brought  him  the  fulness  of 
that  delight  of  which  he  had  clasped,  in  his 
first  alliance,  the   iieshless   skeleton.     She,  j 
too,  was  rewarded,  for  her  father  restored  to 
her  bis  blessing,  which,  how  little  soever  its  ' 
intiinsic  value,  was  very  dear  to  her.     Her 
mother  returned  to  her  own  land,  and  lived 
many  years  there,  rejoicing  in  the  sun.    Her 
husband's  child,  sick,  dreary,  lost  in  terrors 
and  the  blackest  unbelief,  came  to  die  near 
her,  helped  by  her  gentleness  thi'ough  the 
darkest  hour ;  and  if  not  at  peace  with  him- 
self, perhaps  so  with  God,  because  penitent, 
went  to  rest. 

As  she  watched  by  her  husband's  dying 

I  pillow,  made  easy  by  her  sweet  tenderness, 
her  soft  solicitude,  and  sacred  influence,  she 

'  made  the  inward  resolution,  which  she  re- 
newed on  a  more  religious  vow  upon  his 
closed  grave,  that  whatever  might  her  temp- 
tations be,  she  would  never  marry  again  ;  to 
his  memory  she  devoted  herself,  and  to  his 
child,  their  only  daughter ;  his  conservative 
tastes  she  cherished  as  her  own ;  his  castle 
wore  its  raiment  of  decay  proudly,  his  fallen 
trees  found  their  last  beds  in  the  soil  from 
which  they  sprang  —  she  was,  in  short,  the 
guardian  of  his  child  and  heiress.  But  she 
had  not  controlled  that  child  in  her  affection, 
and  blessed  God  that  it  was  not  ])art  of  her 
duty  to  do  so  ;  but  that  it  was  a  part  of  her 
duty  in  her  own  to  control  herself  she  be- 
lieved, and  acted  in  that  faith.  Time  had 
brought  a  victim  to  the  sacrificial  altar  of  her 
heart;  she  had  slain  it,  her  own  love  in  her 
own  happiness. 

One  great  delight,  besides  her  daughter, 
was  still  her  own.  Generous,  to  a  fault,  if 
slie  had  not  been  most  just ;  large-hearted, 
oi)en-hauded,  and  full  r>f  sympathy  with  art, 
she  dedicated  to  artists  if  needy,  perseverant, 
and  genuine,  the  large  fortune  settled  on  her 
by  her  husband,  Mhich  it  did  not  trouble  her 
to  receive,  as  it  scarcely  diminished  sensibly 
the  vast  one  reverting  to  her  chUd,  and  was 
entirely  separate  from  it  —  the  fruits  of  her 
husband's  services  as  an  eminent  ruler,  in 
his  youth,  in  India. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

)  It  was  early  day.  Northeden  lay  in  a 
valley ;  its  castle  and  its  hamlet,  and  the  val- 
ley was  bright  with  culture  as  a  teeming 
garden,  with  a  core  of  the   richest  timber 


growth  in  its  centre,  from  wr-ose  shade,  in 
the  distance  a  deep  green  cloud,  sprung  the 
pale  turrets  to  which  the  new-risen  sun, 
piercing  the  mild  mist  of  the  lowland,  now 
lent  a  roseate  burnish. 

The  castle  was  old  enough  to  have  been  a 
ruin,  and  restored ;  not  with  the  restitution 
Avhich  has  fallen  like  a  curse  on  many  a 
shrine  antique  ;  the  plaster-glare  of  freshened 
arches,  the  ghost-colors  of  modern  windows. 
Here  old  materials  fallen  from  use  or  into 
misuse  were  replaced  and  recombined.  Tap- 
estries of  hues  as  dim  as  dying  flowers, 
still  rendered  faithfully  from  the  walls  their 
pale  pictorial  legends  ;  flowers  carved  in 
wood,  —  an  art  in  its  perfection  lost  like  the 
art  of  glass  distaining,  —  were  eaten  with 
the  canker  of  decay,  yet  held  their  graceful 
sway  on  cornice,  frame,  and  moulding, 
mixed  with  leaf  garlands,  worm-peforated 
until  they  seemed  browidy  glimmering  like 
skeletons  of  forest  leaves  in  autumn.-  Old 
furniture,  old  carpets,  old  damasks,  filled 
the  state-rooms  without  one  gairish  incon- 
sistency. To  velvet  curtains,  whitened  in 
long  lines  M-here  the  sun  had  burned  upon 
their  folds,  to  leathern  hangings,  whose  gold 
figures  Time's  finger  had  rasped  to  pallid 
yellow,  to  blackened  stone,  chipped  marble, 
phantom  portrait,  stole  a  lesser  than  day's 
own  light  even  at  fullesli  noon,  from  small 
unfrequent  windows,  gloomed  deeper  by  the 
intense  tints,  with  which  old  art  had  gemmed 
the  upper  panes.  The  breeze,  whether  creep- 
ing in  through  crack,  or  dancing  thi'ough 
open  door,  seemed  to  lend  itself  to  mysteri- 
ous echoes  the  moment  it  entered  the  halls, 
and  the  tem])est-tone  of  the  wind  sounded 
like  a  roll  of  thunder  heard  in  a  vault  or  f 
cavern.  On  winter  nights  of  storm,  too,  the 
trees  in  the  park  roared  hke  a  sea  against 
that  thunder,  and  there  scarcely  passed  a 
day,  during  the  latter  equinox,  but  some 
huge  hoar  elm,  or  oak  of  fabulous  descent, 
crashed  to  the  trembling  ground.  These 
corpse  trunks,  never  removed  when  fallen, 
lay  here  and  there  under  the  leaf-domes  and 
arch-avenues,  across  your  path  you  met 
them,  or  crushing  flat*  the  long  fern  of  the 
glades  ;  —  some  half-bleached,  dry  as  ivory, 
with  hollows  that  the  wild  bees  made  their 
cells  in  ;  others  enamelled  with  mosses  of 
emerald  and  gold,  or  crusted  with  lichen 
delicately  fair  as  the  sea-flowers  which  wreathe 
a  sunken  Mreck. 

A  high  wall,  wrapped  so  thick  with  ivies 
that  not  a  brick-tint  started  through  the 
glossy  gloom,  compassed  the  park  all  round, 
a  solitude  undesecrated  by  the  step  of  prog- 
ress, and  than  which  none  serener  or 
sweeter  could  be  found  in  the  summer  noons 
when  the  insect  hum,  the  myriad  chirp,  and 
the  breeze  that  chafed  the  leafy  deeps, 
melted  altogether  into  a  dream  of  sound 
most  like  that  di-eara  of  shade.  There  was 
a  garden  next  to  the  park,  but  that  too 
rather  grand  than  gay,  with  walks  as  wide 


RUMOR. 


13 


as  roads,  and  deserts  of  grass  spangled 
with  flower  oases,  for  lawns  ;  with  pillars 
whose  crowning  vases  were  too  vast  to  fill 
■with  any  flowers  save  hollyhocks  and  dah- 
lias ;  with  black  evergreen  masses  cut  into 
monstrous  shapes  ;  with  fountains  of  quaint 
device,  some  trickling,  others  dry;  and 
mossed  dials,  and  summer  houses  large 
en>>ugh  to  live  in.  The  garden  wall  con- 
tinued that  of  the  path,  as  richly  ivied,  and 
passed  down  to  the  gates,  bordering  on  each 
side  the  entrance  avenue  of  elms  planted  six 
deep,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  long. 

There  was  another  approach  to  the  castle, 
quite  close  to  the  tower  called  the  summer 
tower,  because  only  in  summer  inhabited. 
In  the  wall  on  that  side  of  the  garden  the 
ivy  from  a  certain  spot  had  been  cut  away, 
and  the  bricks  taken  out,  leaving  an  aper- 
ture large  enough  for  a  single  person  to  pass 
through,  filled  with  the  gate  of  the  lightest 
iron  fretwork.  To  stand  on  the  castle-side 
and  look  through  that  gate,  was  like  turning 
from  the  mellow  darkening  twilight  to  the 
dazzle  of  fullest  noon.  In  a  smaller  garden, 
flowers  were  blossoming  in  that  perfection 
which  it  is  the  necessary  homage  of  the 
flower-worshipper's  most  jealous  passion  to 
create.  Round  the  soft  lawn,  unspeckled  by 
one  peasant  daisy,  the  wall  was  hidden  by  a 
light  Gothic  framework,  delicately  gilt,  filled 
with  foreign  plants  whose  blooms  bathed  in 
the  sunlight,  calm  as  jewels  displayed  behind 
a  shrine  of  crystal.  As  brilliant  were  the 
flower-beds  on  the  lawn,  but  there  the  jewel 
calm  was  agitated  by  each  quiver  of  the 
breeze,  to  that  stir  of  infinitely  blended  fra- 
grance which  is  its  paradise  to  the  sense  of 
smell,  and  that  silent  harmony  with  which 
the  flutter  of  color  feasts  the  eye.  Urns 
overflowed  with  sparkling  creepers,  baskets 
of  wrought  alabaster  held  rose  clusters  as 
snowy-pure,  tier  above  tier  aspired  pyramids 
that  seemed  blossoming  flame.  In  sea-water 
basins  gleamed  the  flowers  of  the  ocean,  and 
in  one  bright  water  lay  lilies  of  the  wave, 
white,  golden,  azure,  fanned  by  mysterious 
maiden  hair  and  bordered  with  blue  forget- 
me-not. 

There  was  a  house  in  this  garden  too,  its 
low  white  walls  crossed  with  trellis  from 
veranda  to  chimney,  the  trellis  so  thickly 
interlaced  with  delicate  plants,  in  fullest 
flower,  that  it  looked  rather  a  bower  than  a 
domestic  dwelling.  All  the  rooms,  all  on 
the  ground  floor,  showed  through  the  crystal 
sashes  of  their  windows  a  soft  gleam  of 
colors  like  shadows  of  the  flowers  without. 
All  the  walls  were  hung  with  flower-colored 
silks  ;  one,  a  sjjring  chamber,  with  hues  of 
hyacinths,  junk,  lilac,  purple,  tender-blue  ;  a 
summer  drawing-room  with  rose  hues,  pale 
and  white  and  damask ;  an  autumn  one  with 
tints  of  geranium,  and  green  relieved  with 
gold.  The  dining-room  was  filled  with  gems 
of  pictures,  and  fruit  beautifully  painted 
seemed  dropping  from  the   ceiling.      One 


bed-room  was  lined  with  white  ;  soft  and 
pure  as  the  cradle  of  a  child  seemed  the  bed 
with  its  satin  quilt,  and  lace  curtain  falling 
from  a  single  pillar  of  curved  ivorj',  tufted 
with  one  snowy  plume  :  while  marble  cherubs 
in  recesses  here  and  there  held  lam])s  that 
when  lighted,  cast  on  their  dimpled  coun- 
tenances a  flush  like  the  roses  of  the  davvn. 

But  now,  at  morning,  the  artificial  flush 
has  sickened  before  the  living  lights  that 
mock  all  art  and  artifice.  The  sun  look  s  in 
at  one  window  without  any  greeting  frnni 
hues  that  mimic  his  own  rainbows,  the  win- 
dow of  the  only  simple  room  in  that  delicate 
and  sumptuous  dwelling.  Strict  need  of  the 
severe  student  had  ordered  its  furniture 
only,  a  table  with  its  oil-cloth  cover  some- 
what rubbed,  old  turkey  carpet  faded,  one 
large  chair,  one  desk,  one  Avicker  basket 
filled  with  torn  letters :  the  walls  lined  with 
books,  none  gayly  bound,  the  monotony  of 
the  many  uniforms  suggesting  standard 
authors,  works  of  reference,  official  registers. 
In  that  room,  writing  at  the  table,  sat  Dia- 
mid  Albany.  Pale  the  night  before,  he  was 
ghastly  now,  and  shadows  blue  as  those  cast 
in  hollows  of  the  snowdrift,  rimmed  his 
great  dark  eyes.  The  droop  of  those  eyes, ' 
in  society  so  vividly  expanded,  the  frown 
between  them,  melancholy  rather  than  stern, 
the  relaxed  under  lip,  the  nervous  clutch  of 
the  pen  between  the  fingers  as  though  their 
own  strength  were  not  suflicient  to  retain  it 
unseconded  by  the  power  of  the  will,  the 
stoop  and  rounded  shoulder,  all  told  a  tale 
of  weariness  irresistible  by  the  body  ;  but 
mentally,  never  gaining  the  upper  hand. 
Weariness  of  what?  Certainly  not  of  that 
apparation,  which  entering  at  the  door,  melts 
every  Hue  of  the  face  into  momentary  soft- 
ness, brims  the  eye  with  kindness  warmer 
than  afiection,  and  swells  the  breast  with  a 
sigh  of  ineffable  relief. 

It  was  Geraldine  in  her  unfashionable 
morning  dress,  a  loose  white  robe  of  lawn, 
her  lovely  hair  flowing  to  her  waist  in  child- 
like curls.  Child  as  she  was  in  years,  and 
old  for  his  years  as  he  was,  there  seemed  no 
incongruence  between  them,  even  in  point 
of  age.  Only  genius,  with  its  daring  inno- 
cence, its  untaught  power  to  solve  all  mys- 
teries of  feeling,  could  have  rendered  her  a 
companion  as  well  as  a  consoling  charmer, 
for  one  of  his  sagacity  and  experience.  She 
understood  his  character  without  caring  that 
she  did  so ;  she  drew  upon  his  enormous 
mental  resources  with  confidence  but  without 
apology  ;  never  did  she  descant  upon  that 
which  he  valued  far  too  secretly  to  bear  its 
mention  —  his  idol  of  renown.  Too  little 
yet,  to  say  of  one  too  liberally  gifted  with 
sym])athy,  with  intelligence;  with  passion; 
too  early  gifted  with  consummate  joy. 

"  I  am  going  to  Lady  Delucy's,"  said  she, 
clinging  to  his  embracing  arm,  and  covering 
his  hand  with  kisses  fit  to  fall  on  an  infant's 
j  cheek,  so  soft  and  noiseless  were  they,  "  and 


14 


RUMOR. 


it  is  a  very  good  thing  I  am,  for  do  you 
know  if  I  Avere  alone  without  you,  even  for  a 
morning  noiv,  my  heart  would  beat  so  with 
suspense  that  I  should  die." 

"  No,  no,  you  would  wait  for  me." 

"  To  M-ait  would  be  death,"  she  answered ; 
"is  not  night  the  emblem  of  death?  does  it 
not  wait  for  the  morning  ?  But  you  will  only 
be  six  hours,  four  at  the  committee,  and  one 
hour  to  ride  there,  and  the  other  back." 

"I  shall  not  ride,  it  takes  too  long ;  I  take 
the  train." 

But  Geraldine  threw  her  arms  round  him  ; 
she  wept;  she  implored,  and  the  roses 
burned  feverish  on  her  cheeks.  "  Not  the 
train,  Diamid,  not  the  train  without  me.  I 
hnow  something  would  happen  ;  I  should  die 
of  fear.  I  know  you  are  safe  on  horseback ; 
all  creatures  love  you." 

"  Saving  only  men." 

"  But  promise,  promise  !" 

So  he  promised,  well  knoAving  the  result 
of  hard  riding  to  the  strained  nervous  sys- 
tem which  had  been  the  solitary  demon  bat- 
tling with  his  ambition  all  his  life ;  always 
conquered,  though  its  thrusts  were  felt  so 
keenly. 

Geraldine  stood  beside  the  horse  while  he 
mounted,  stroked  its  black,  silk  mane,  ran 
for  a  rose  to  put  beside  its  ear,  took  one  of 
its  delicately  shod  feet  in  her  hand  and  flap- 
ped a  little  dust  ofi'  it  with  her  handker- 
chief, talked  of  riding  behind  her  husband 
in  man's  disguise,  "  a  jockey-groom,  Mr. 
Albany's  last,"  made  him  change  watches 
with  her,  in  short,  detained  him  by  every 
possible  expedient,  till  he  had  barely  half  an 
hour  for  a  ride  of  eleven  miles.  Just  before 
he  left  her,  he  gave  her  the  key  of  the  iron 
gate  between  their  garden  and  park. 

"  Shall  I  give  your  love  to  her  ?  "  asked 
Geraldine. 

!'  I  have  given  it  all  to  you,  there  is  none 
left  for  any  other."  And  so  he  rode  away, 
and  she  returned  into  the  garden,  sat  down 
amidst  the  flowers  and  wept  bitterly,  blind- 
ingly,  as  some  weep  over  the  grave  of  love. 
Oh  haughty  passion,  untrained  in  thy  blos- 
som hours,  flinging  wild  tendrils  round  a 
heart  too  fully  satisfied  ;  what  shall  be  thy 
fruition  ?  or  shall  those  tendrils,  grown 
more  strong  and  clinging  still,  strangle  the  j 
delicate  spu-it  Contentment,  more  easily  than  I 
Sorrow  could  wither  it  away  P  Certain  it 
was,  however,  that  she  could  not  bear  her-  j 
self  alone  for  long  ;  she  rose  hastily,  filled  j 
her  garden-hat  with  fresh-blown  flowers  as  ^ 
she  passed  them,  and  went  through  the  gati 
into  the  park. 


CHAPTER    V. 

Lady  Delucy   saw   Geraldine   cross    the 
lawn  from   the  ground  floor  windows  of  a 


room  she  had  always  been  used  to  share 
Avith  her  daughter,  till  she  had  found  a  com- 
panion dearer  still  than  her  mother  ;  Geral- 
dine stepped  in  at  the  window,  M'hich  was 
open. 

"  I  have  come,  you  see,"  she  said.  Lady 
Delucy  took  both  her  hands,  would  have 
liked  to  kiss  her,  but  did  not  dare,  so  proud 
was  the  brilliant  face  in  every  line,  with  the 
pride  of  a  child  who  will  not  be  coaxed  to 
smile  when  it  is  sad,  or  when  it  does  not 
choose.  Neither  did  she,  any  more  than  a 
child  would  have  done,  try  to  conceal  her 
surprise  at  the  style  of  the  room,  so  sombre 
and  dull  to  her,  with  its  dim  wainscoting, 
high  chairs,  and  heavy  tables,  heajis  of 
books  wherever  there  was  room  to  deposit 
them,  odd  volumes  from  the  library,  Italian 
and  French  novelties  in  their  flimsy  wrap- 
pers, new  plays,  new  poems,  German  and 
Spanish  dictionaries,  all  the  newspapers,  all 
the  periodicals,  all  serials  illustrated  by  art. 
There  were  certainly  a  piano  and  a  harp, 
but  the  first  was  closed  and  the  second  cov- 
ered. There  were  but  two  easy  seats  in  the 
room,  reading  chairs,  in  one  of  which  the 
lady  sat,  and  Geraldine  chose  a  cushion  at 
its  foot. 

"  Diamid  would  not  send  his  love  to  you," 
she  began,  "  though  I  asked  him  whether  I 
should  bring  it." 

"  Because  he  had  given  it  all  to  you  — 
was  not  that  the  reason  ?  " 

"  How  could  you  know  he  said  so  ?  for  he 
did." 

"  I  knew  Diamid  when  he  was  as  young 
as  you  are  now,  he  was  in  my  father's  house 
at  that  time,  to  be  initiated  into  the  myste- 
ries of  Eastern  trade,  for  though  his  father 
was  a  bookworm,  his  earlier  ancestors  Avere 
all  connected  with  the  East,  you  know." 

"  Yes,  but  papa  Avon't  hear  of  that ;  it 
makes  him  very  angry.  I  suppose  Diamid 
used  to  talk  to  you,  and  that  you  petted 
him  ;  he  says  so." 

"  I  learned  his  ways,  and  understood  his 
fancies  ;  he  Avas  as  wonderful  a  boy  as  he  is 
now  a  wonderful  man." 

"  And  Avhen  youAvere  married  he  says  you 
were  very  generous  to  his  father,  who  was 
so  poor  because  no  one  Avould  risk  the  pub- 
lication of  his  books." 

"  Generous,  never  ;  my  husband,  who 
always  sought  the  society  of  the  wise,  be- 
came acquainted  Avith  Diamid"s  father,  and 
Avished  him  to  live  near  him,  because  he 
A'alued  his  society  so  highly." 

"  And  so  he  Avent  to  the  house  where  we 
live  noAV  ;  but  Diamid  said  it  Avas  your  house, 
that  your  husband  gave  to  you,  and  that 
he  had  no  peace  till  he  had  earned  enough 
money  by  his  books  to  buy  the  house  ;  he 
could" not  bear  to  be  indebted,  even  to  you." 

♦'  Diamid  Avas  always  too  proud  ;  it  is  per- 
haps his  only  fault." 

"  But  it  Avas  not  so  pretty  then  as  he  haa 
made  it  now." 


RUMOR 


15 


"  No,  indeed ;  when  I  came  from  London 
this  time,  and  found  all  the  workmen  about 
it,  I  suspected  something  was  going  to  hap- 
pen." 

"  Did  not  Diamid  write  and  tell  you  about 
me  ?  he  said  he  tells  you  every  thing." 

"  No,  he  did  not  tell  me  that,  but  I  fancy 
he  was  too  agreeably  engaged  to  find  time 
to  write." 

"  Were  you  not  surprised  to  see  little  me, 
iast  night  ?  You  could  not  be  more  sur- 
prised than  I  was  when  he  asked  me  to  be 
his  wife.  He  too  —  I  should  as  soon  have 
dreamed  that  one  of  the  sons  of  God  would 
see  that  I  was  fair,  and  come  from  heaven 
to  seek  me,  because  it  was  hell  without  my 
love."  Lady  Delucy  sighed,  but  she  did  not 
check  her  ;  she  knew  too  well  the  necessary 
conditions  of  a  nature  preraatured,  all  that 
it  will  do  and  have  ;  its  erring  yet  touching 
exigencies. 

"  I  should  like  to  hear  all  about  you,  Ger- 
aldine  —  you  must  let  me  call  you  so  —  how 
you  first  saw  Diamid,  and  how  he  ventured 
to  think  you  would  suit  him.  All  about 
you,  because  concerning  him  will  please  me." 

*'  I'll  try,  but  there  seems  so  much,  though 
there  is  really  so  little,  so  few  events  in  my 
life  I  mean.  My  mother  was  a  Geraldi,  and 
I  had  her  name,  to  make  my  father's  name 
endurable,  and  now  it  serves  to  beautify  my 
beautiful  new  name,  which  no  one  can  take 
from  me.  I  was  liorn  in  Italy,  and  came  to 
England  for  a  little  while  with  papa  and 
mamma.  But  when  I  was  six,  and  mamma 
had  still  no  son,  my  grandmamma  Geraldi, 
who  had  married  her  cousin  of  the  same 
name  —  he  was  dead  then,  though  —  sent 
for  me ;  she  wished  to  bring  me  up  and  leave 
me  her  fortune,  which  is  very  large.  She 
hated  me  first  for  being  a  girl.  Papa  could 
not  refuse,  for  he  wanted  me  to  have  all  the 
money.  I  did  not  care  for  it  then,  but  now 
I  do,  for  it  will  be  Diamid's  to  make  use  of, 
and  papa's  too  shall  all  be  his  when  it  is 
mine.  So  they  sent  me  back  to  Italy,  and 
an  English  governess  with  me,  that  I  might 
be  brought  up  like  an  English  girl.  I  can 
truly  say  however,  that  I  have  forgotten  all 
she  taught  me,  except  the  language  itself. 
She  was  a  Protestant,  and  read  me  English 
prayers  on  a  Sunday,  and  made  me  hold 
books  of  sermons  in  my  hands  all  day. 
Then  I  had  a  master  for  French,  and  one  for 
Latin,  and  for  mathematics  and  astronomy. 
I  loved  none  of  those  things,  but  hated 
astronomy  most  of  all.  There  was  an  ob- 
servatory at  the  top  of  the  palazzo,  and  there 
I  was  stuck  to  look  through  a  tube,  till  I 
could  dream  of  nothing  but  the  shapes  of 
the  constellations  as  they  are  traced  on  the 
globe,  crawling  all  over  the  sky  ;  and  then  I 
had  an  illness  in  which  I  raved  about  them, 
so  they  left  ofi"  teaching  me  astronomy,  and 
I  had  more  time  to  myself.  Soon  I  began  to 
read  the  books  in  the  library  for  pleasure  — 
for  after  all,  I  understood  Italian  best,  and  I 


found  out  all  the  poetry,  and  soon  wrote  my- 
self, it  is  so  easy  to  write  poetry  in  Italian, 
and  in  Italy.  I  improvisated  to  the  statues 
in  the  garden  ;  I  was  Beatrice,  I  was  Laura, 
I  was  Leonora  D'Este.  Always  a  woman, 
and  the  poets  my  heroes,  yet  I  burned  to  be 
a  genius  greater  than  the  greatest  of  all 
those.  But  I  took  care  to  keep  to  myself 
only,  my  worship  of  the  divinities  of  song. 

"  There  was  only  one  person  in  our  house 
who  interested  me,  because  of  my  own  age, 
for  I  was  allowed  to  be  intimate  with  no 
young  ladies  of  Catholic  families,  and  there 
were  none  round  about  who  were  not  so.  A 
dear  cousin  of  mine  lived  with  grandmamma; 
his  name  was  Geraldi  Feriani.  He  was  an 
officer's  son,  one  of  the  younger  branch  of 
his  own  family  —  and  mamma's  first  cousin, 
not  so  rich  as  she  in  expectations,  married 
him  to  avoid  being  put  into  a  convent.  Ge- 
raldi is  just  a  year  older  than  I  —  eighteen. 
He  loves  me  a  great  deal  better  than  I  de- 
serve ;  even  as  a  child  he  spoiled  me.  Every 
body  was  rather  strict  besides,  grandmamma 
pretty  strict  with  me,  but  terribly  strict  with 
him.  She  treated  him  as  she  treats  her  ser- 
vants ;  she  never  addressed  him  in  conversa- 
tion, and  she  would  not  let  him  have  masters, 
though  I  wished  him  to  loarn  with  me.  She 
forbade  me  also  to  play  with  him,  and  I  dis- 
obeyed her,  though  I  never  promised  in 
words  that  I  would  obey.  The  only  times 
we  could  be  alone  together  was  when  grand- 
mamma was  in  the  oratory,  or  w^ith  the  priest 
in  the  chapel.  How  handsome  Geraldi 
would  have  been  if  he  had  not  been  so  sav- 
agely, doggedly  sad !  he  never  smiled  to 
show  his  splendid  teeth,  and  his  eyes  were 
half  shut  up  with  melancholy.  He  stamped 
on  the  ground  when  he  walked,  as  if  he 
were  crushing  down  something  terrible  and 
strong  into  it,  and  often  went  into  pale  pas- 
sions, \vhen  he  did  not  speak,  but  set  his 
teeth  tight  and  ground  them,  and  shuddered 
from  head  to  foot ;  till  I  was  afraid  he  was 
going  mad.  That  was  when  he  was  growing 
tall,  and  grandmamma  used  to  hint  that  it 
would  not  do  to  keep  him  idle  any  longer, 
yet  she  never  said  what  he  was  to  be  when 
he  grew  up,  nor  he  either  ;  he  would  never 
speak  of  himself  to  her. 

"  One  day  he  had  been  walking  about 
with  that  crunching,  grinding  step,  and  be- 
ing in  the  garden,  and  knowing  grand- 
mamma was  at  her  prayers,  I  called  him  to 
come  and  sit  beside  me,  and  when  he  would 
not  come  I  pulled  him,  and  then  he  came 
quietly  enough.  We  sat  down,  I  recollect, 
on  the  base  of  a  statue  of  a  nymph  with  a 
thorn  in  her  foot ;  she  was  holding  her  foot 
in  her  hand,  and  stood  in  a  thicket  of  roses, 
from  which  the  thorn  came,  I  suppose.  But 
the  other  foot  was  chipped,  and  a  great  piece 
too  was  broken  oft'  the  plinth,  as  we  were 
sitting,  on  Geraldi's  side.  Then  I  said,  '  I 
wish  I  knew  what  makes  you  so  dreadfully 
unhappy;    is    it    because  grandmamma  is 


16 


RUMOR. 


cold?  She  cannot  love  warmlj-,  Geraldi; 
she  cannot  love  as  I  love.  Do  not  mind 
about  her;  I  will  love  you  double;  I  will 
love  you  warmly  as  the  sun,  and  kiss  you  as 
softly  as  the  moon,  when  she  lays  her  beam 
upon  your  forehead.  I  will  love  you  more 
than  twenty  sisters,  and  Avhen  I  am  married, 
we  will  live  together.'  Of  course,  Lady 
Delucy,  I  only  meant  that  I  should  be  mar- 
ried some  day,  to  some  one  or  other.  But 
Geraldi  turned  round  on  me ;  black  fire 
seemed  to  dart  out  of  his  eyes  ;  he  caught 
hold  of  me,  and  pressed  me  so  hard  in  his 
arms  that  I  felt  his  heart  beat,  and  heard  it 
too.  '  Geraldine,  Geraldine,  do  you  mean 
that  ? '  'Of  course,'  said  I,  quite  startled, 
as  soon  as  I  could  get  my  breath. 

"  '  But  do  you  not  see  that  they  will  never 
allow  it?  We  must  go  away  in  the  dark  — 
far  —  far.' 

" '  Oh,  Geraldi,  I  did  not  mean  that  I 
would  marry  yoii,  but  that  you  should  live 
with  me  and  my  husband.' 

"  Down  fell  (3eraldi,  dropped  like  a  stone 
on  the  ground,  and  cut  his  temple  against 
the  sharp,  broken  edge  of  the  plinth.  I 
was  horrified,  I  thought  he  was  killed ;  but 
the  blood  started  out  of  the  wound,  and  I 
screamed.  Then,  remembering  how  far  we 
were  from  the  house,  I  tied  it  up  with  my 
handkerchief,  meaning  to  run  home  for  some 
one  directly  I  had  done  so,  for  I  thought  he 
would  bleed  to  death.  But  instead,  the 
bleeding  revived  hira ;  he  opened  his  eyes, 
and  held  my  frock  so  tightly,  that  I  could 
not  stir. 

"  '  Promise  me,'  he  said,  between  his  lips, 
which  were  purple,  and  his  clinched  teeth, 
'  that  you  will  never,  never  tell  any  one  that 
you  refused  me ;  I  could  not  bear  that,  and 
if  you  did,  I  should  kill  you  and  myself  too 
with  my  father's  sword,  the  same  which  — ' 

"  —  And  there  he  stopped  short,  nor  could 
I  make  him  complete  the  meaning  of  the 
sentence." 

"  My  dear  child,"  said  Lady  Delucy, 
"  pardon  n)e,  but  should  you  not  keep  your 
cousin's  story  a  secret?  Was  it  not  con- 
fided to  you  alone  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  he  did  not  say  so ;  I  have  told 
Diamid.  I  should  not  tell  miy  body,  of 
course,  but  Diamid  says  he  feels  for  you  al- 
most as  a  mother." 

Any  but  a  child  in  inexperience,  at  least 
cf  women,  would  have  been  struck  by  the 
expression  of  the  lady's  face  —  very  sudden, 
like  the  shadow  on  it  of  a  mental  spasm, 
very  short,  passing  into  a  light  of  pale,  yet 
patient  melancholy.  But  Geraldine's  proud 
eyes  saw  only  signs  of  interest,  and  sym- 
pathy with  herself. 

"  ^ly  love,"  said  the  lady,  very  tenderly, 
"  would  you  have  liked,  if  Diamid  had  not 
loved  you,  that  any  person  —  that  he  — 
should  have  known  you  loved  liim')  " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  cried  Geraldine,  in  glad  tones 
of  triumph,  "I  should  have  gloried  in  it, 


and  have  wished  to  die  for  love  of  him,  and 
that  all  the  world  should  know  I  died  so,  he 
the  most  of  all." 

"  Oh,"  thought  Lady  Delucy,  "  child  most 
of  all  there,  younger  in  that  belief  than  thy 
years  !  Strange  fate  !  desire  uncreated,  be- 
fore fulfilment  came :  Spring  born  instead 
of  summer,  of  the  spring.  A  destiny  un- 
earthly of  doomed  delight.  Can  such  last, 
even  for  this  short  life  ?  If  not,  who  would 
break  and  scatter  one  link  of  the  frail  and 
fiower-woven  chain  ?     Not  I." 

So  she  smiled  and  sighed  together,  while 
Geraldine  went  on. 

"  When  Geraldi  was  well  again,  I  said  to 
him,  '  AVhy  did  you  say  that  they  would  not 
let  us  marry  ?  I  do  not  say  we  ought,  for  I 
don't  believe  we  should  suit  each  other  ;  and 
besides,  I  must  marry  to  please  papa,  be- 
cause he  is  ambitious,  and  I  am  liis  only 
child,  and  he  has  been  so  kind  in  letting  me 
live  in  darling  Italy;  but  tchy  would  they 
positively  prevent  it,  if  we  liked  ?  ' 

"  '  I  am  poor,  I  am  disgraced,  I  had  better 
be  dead,  and  if  I  were  worthy  of  my  father 
I  soon  should  be.'  But  no  more  would  he 
tell  me,  so  I  was  curious,  and  talked  to  the 
sei-vants,  with  whom  I  had  never  been 
thrown  before,  but  I  was  determined  I 
would  know.  I  made  out  that  grandmamma 
took  Geraldi  out  of  charity ;  certainly  the 
English  proverb  that  charity  is  cold,  re- 
ceived its  interpretation  through  her.  Well, 
Geraldi's  father  was  never  a  favorite  of  his 
mother's  family ;  he  became  by  conviction  a 
republican,  and  tried  to  turn  his  sword 
against  the  king,  who  had  treated  some  of 
his  associates  with  dreadful  injustice  and 
cruelty.  I  don't  know  the  particulars,  but 
GerakU's  father  was  discovered  in  his  at- 
tempt, and  imprisoned.  To  evade  his  prob- 
able fate  he  fell  upon  his  sword,  and  died  in 
torment.  For  the  double  offence  of  treason 
and  suicide,  his  child  suffered  the  loss  of  all 
his  property,  except  the  sword,  which  some 
daring  colleague,  in  prison  too,  managed  to 
steal,  and  gave  Geraldi.  Geraldi  has  buried 
it  in  the  ground,  in  its  case.  I  only  know 
the  spot,  for  he  made  me  promise  not  to  tell 
even  Diamid.  The  Geraldis  had  always 
treated  his  father  as  a  hair-brained  under- 
ling, one  who  had  infringed  on  the  honor  of 
the  family ;  so  conservative,  even  of  bad 
things,  are  they.  I  loved  Geraldi  better 
than  ever,  after  I  knew  all  about  his  troubled 
life,  yet  I  loved  less  to  be  near  him,  and  I 
strove  my  utmost  to  conquer  that  aversion,  . 
because  I  thought  it  cruel  and  ungenerous 
when  he  had  no  one  else  to  love  him.  I 
was  excessively  hurt  and  angry  with  grand- 
mamma, yet  dared  not  say  so,  for  fear  she 
should  send  him  quite  away,  and  at  last  I 
almost  worked  myself  up  into  a  beUef  that 
I  ought  to  marry"  him,  and  that  when  I  was 
old  enough  I  would  try;  perhaps  I  might 
like  him  better  then,  I  thought. 

"  Papa  and  mamma  always  came  to  spend 


EUMOR. 


17 


the  autumn  with  us,  and  returned  to  Eng- 
land in  time  for  the  opening  of  Parliament. 
Last  autumn  papa  wrote  word  that  he  should 
bring  a  friend  with  him,  and  that  I  was  to  he 
introduced  at  taljle  —  I  had  never  appeared 
yet,  when  there  were  any  strangers.  The 
day  came  ;  the  courier  came  to  say  that  they 
were  just  at  hand.  Then  grandmamma  took 
me  into  her  own  hands  and  dressed  me  for 
the  first  time  in  her  life.  To  my  surprise 
and  horror  she  put  on  me  a  lace  frock  —  a 
dreadful  thing  from  Paris,  low  in  the  throat, 
with  short  sleeves  —  and  what  was  worse, 
she  trimmed  me  all  over  with  jewels,  till  I 
looked  like  an  idol  of  the  Virgin.  I  did  not 
dare  to  complain,  however,  and  indeed  I  felt 
it  did  not  really  signify,  for  I  was  not  at  all 
excited  ahout  the  stranger  they  said  was 
coming.  All  day  that  day  too,  Geraldi  was 
nowhere  to  be  seen.  At  last  the  time  came, 
grandmamma  went  down,  dressed  grandly, 
but  not  frightfully  as  I  was,  and  she  led  me 
in  her  hand.  Of  course  I  wanted  to  run 
and  kiss  papa  and  mamma,  but  she  pinched 
my  hand  so  tight  I  could  not  get  it  free. 
And  when  I  got  into  the  room — an  immense 
room  —  I  could  not  at  first  see  what  the 
stranger  was  like.  I  looked  all  round, 
while  papa  and  mamma  embraced  me,  and 
at  last  saw  some  person  in  a  corner  —  next 
moment  papa  took  me  to  him.  But  what 
was  strange,  he  only  said  my  name  by  way 
of  introduction,  not  Ids.  It  was  Diamid, 
however,  looking  so  beautiful,  but  oh,  so 
weary  !  And  when  he  said  '  I  am  very 
happy  to  see  you.  Lady  Geraldine,'  so  kind- 
ly, just  as  if  I  were  a  child  (and  indeed  I 
suppose  I  was,  for  I  wanted  to  put  my  arms 
round  him  and  kiss  him)  I  thought  for  the 
first  time  that  English  was,  after  all,  not  so 
harsh  a  tongue  as  I  had  always  believed. 
But  the  next  moment  Diamid  glanced  at  my 
dress  —  I  saw  he  thought  it  ridiculous,  for 
there  was  a  little  baby-smile  just  at  the  cor- 
ners of  his  mouth ;  and  I  burned  with  shame 
and  indignation.  J  never  reflected  in  those 
days,  but  acted  on  impulse  as  naturally  as  I 
breathed,  and  I  ran  with  all  my  speed  out 
of  the  room  ;  I  did  not  even  hear  them  call 
after  me ;  I  suppose  they  were  too  much 
amazed,  for  no  one  had  seen  Diamid's  glance 
except  myself  I  rushed  into  grandmamma's 
room  and  tore  ofl'  the  lace  rubbish  and  dia- 
monds, flinging  them  into  her  press,  and 
then  I  let  down  all  my  hair  in  curls  just  as 
I  had  worn  it  before  grandmamma  rolled  it 
up  and  dressed  it,  and  as  I  Avear  it  now  ;  and 
I  put  on  one  of  my  old  dresses,  made  like 
this  which  I  have  on.  Nobody  sent  after 
me,  and  I  staid  there  a  while,  and  at  last 
went  down  into  the  library,  got  something 
to  eat  from  one  of  the  servants,  and  then 
settled  myself  to  read,  but  I  could  neither 
read  nor  settle,  so  I  went  out  on  the  terrace, 
and  walked  up  and  down  very  fast  —  I  was 
so  excited  I  did  not  know  what  to  do,  so 
afraid  and  yet  glad  —  all  the  world  seemed 
3 


I  new  ;  and  yet  I  felt  it  was  only  because  that 
I  stranger  was  in  the  house,  only  because  1 
longed  for  him  to  see  me  again,  in  my  own 
!  natural  habit,  that  he  might  think  me  pretty, 
as  I  knew  he  would  then.  Presently  they 
all  came  out  to  walk  ;  I  had  expected  them, 
because  the  evening  was  so  warm  ;  I  walked 
slower  ;  soon  papa  came  up  to  me.  He  was 
very  angry,  I  could  see  that,  and  yet  I  did 
not  care,  for  Diamid  was  close  behind  him. 
Papa  began  to  scold  in  a  very  low  voice,  and 
in  Italian. 

"  '  I  am  much  displeased  with  you,  —  how 
dared  you  go  away  when  I  ordered  you  were 
to  be  present  at  dinner?  and  how  dared  you 
change  your  dress,  which  I  had  ordered 
too  —  I  am  astonished,  I  am  amazed  — ' 
But  Diamid  interrupted  him. 

"  '  Stay,'  he  said,  '  she  should  be  enshrined 
and  worshipped  as  that  rare  thing,  a  womar 
Avho  understands  herself,  and  who,  unstainec* 
by  the  vanity  which  clothes  all  beauty  with 
corruption,  has  courage  to  repudiate  artifice ; 
as  sincere  as  she  is  fair.'  Papa  looked  as- 
tounded ;  he  had  no  idea  Diamid  understood 
Italian.  And  so  ashamed  for  him  to  have 
heard  what  he  said  to  me." 

"  Why  ashamed  ?  "  asked  Lady  Delucy, 
assuming  ignorance,  for  she  could  not  be- 
lieve so  young  a  girl  would  know. 

"  I  did  not  know  then,  —  Diamid  told  me 
afterwards,  he  tells  me  all  I  ask  him.  Papa 
wished  Diamid  to  marry  me,  and  to  seem  so 
anxious  that  I  should  appear  in  full  dress 
was  a  British  blunder,  which  no  one  could 
detect  more  easily,  nor  mock  more  delicately, 
than  Diamid.  Papa  had  chosen  to  admire 
Diamid  because  he  is  what  papa  calls  a  self- 
made  man,  meaning  he  can  do  all  he  chooses, 
and  cares  to  do  the  utmost,  because  so  am- 
bitious. Papa  is  ambitious,  but  has  a  small 
mind  which  can  only  move  in  a  circle.  I 
had  heard  all  my  life  of  Diamid  Albany,  but 
never  for  a  moment  then,  imagined  this 
stranger  was  the  same.  So  Diamid  walked 
with  me  on  the  terrace ;  he  talked  to  me  so 
beautifully,  so  kindly,  yet  so  admiringly ;  I 
was  proud,  I  grew  prouder  every  moment, 
and  felt  as  if  I  grew,  —  I  do  believe  I  was 
a  M'Oman  grown  that  night.  Tlie  next  day 
we  talked  again  ;  how  easy  I  was  with  him, 
—  yet  he  was  the  first  person  to  Avhom  I  had 
ever  looked  up.  He  drew  out  every  secret 
feeling,  only  by  looking  me  in  the  fiice,  as 
the  air  draws  out  the  perfumes  of  the  flow- 
ers, and  the  sun  draws  up  the  dew.  I  told 
him  all  about  Geraldi,  and  actually  asked 
him  whether  I  should  not  do  right  to  marry 
him.  Diamid  said  earnestly,  '  You  must  not 
think  of  it,  my  child.  Small  natures  in 
making  sacrifices  become  sublime ;  great 
minds  by  the  diminution  of  natural  happi- 
ness, turn  into  slaves  instead  of  the  rulers 
they  should  be.'  Proud  as  I  was  when  he 
called  me  woman,  I  was  happier  now  that  he 
called  me  '  child.' 

"  Next  day  papa  brought  me  a  number  cf 


18 


RUMOR. 


books,  and  told  me  that  I  was  to  read  them, 
that  it  was  time  I  should  —  that  every  body 
must  be  able  to  say  they  had  read  them,  and 
talk,  about  them.  I  wondered  why,  but  not 
long.  I  never  was  averse  to  reading,  except 
books  on  science.  Every  thing  but  science 
seemed  treated  of  in  these.  There  were 
dramas,  prose  romances,  satires,  essays, 
theoriei  sketched  and  typified,  and  I  felt 
sure  that  only  one  produced  them  all.  There 
was  no  name  on  the  title  pages  ;  you  know 
Diamid  never  put  his  name  till  it  was  famous ; 
this  was  the  first  edition  of  his  works,  papa 
had  procured  it  on  purpose,  that  I  might  not 
know.  For  some  days  I  did  not  see  iJiamid, 
nor  papa;  they  M'ent  out  on  excursions,  and 
I  was  left  at  home.  I  had  read  all  the  books 
through  by  the  time  they  returned,  and  was 
reading  them  again.  I  remember  so  well 
that  day,  as  well  as  those  in  heaven  must 
remember  the  day  they  died.  I  was  reading 
'The  Lotus  Valley.'  You  remember  that 
one,  of  course  ?  " 

"  I  do  remember  it,  but  perhaps  I  do  not 
know  it  so  well  as  you  do ;  it  was  the  earliest 
of  the  works  he  published."  —  "  Yes,  his 
Primavera,  this  first  bloom  of  the  spring  of 
genius,  what  a  blossom  too  !  I  was  reading 
the  passage  where  Renaro  locks  up  the  child 
Inesilla  Avhom  he  has  received  as  ransom 
for  her  father,  in  the  court  of  the  Hareem. 
I  know  that  passage  by  heart." 

"  *  You  cannot  escape,'  said  Renaro;  'you 
are  entirely  in  my  power ;  with  a  word  of 
mine  I  can  release  you,  by  an  act  detain  you 
here  forever.'  '  I  do  not  care,'  replied  the 
child,  '  nothing  is  of  any  consequence  to  me 
now.  But  do  kill  that  pretty,  poor  but- 
terfly which  I  caught  this  morning  and  was 
playing  with  when  you  carried  me  away.  I 
hid  it  in  the  hollow  of  my  hand,  but  you 
pressed  my  hand  so  tightly  that  it  was  hurt, 
—  poor  me!  I  crushed  the  butterfly,  and 
when  you  let  my  hanl  go  and  I  opened  it,  it 
fell  upon  the  floor.  It  jannot  fly,  it  has  lost 
its  beautiful  soft  dust,  and  its  rose  and 
purple  spots  are  quivering  with  pain.  Oh, 
crush  it  M'ith  your  font,  which  is  heavier  than 
mine !  I  have  no  slippers,  and  my  tread  is 
too  light  to  kill  it.  I  should  make  it  suff'er 
more.'  Renaro  strode  three  steps  along  the 
marble  floor,  and  crushed  the  butterfly ;  its 
ruined  wings  lay  like  bruised  petals  of  a 
storm-scattered  iris.  He  turned  to  the 
child ;  he  had  put  on  not  an  angry  frown. 
'  So  you  have  lost  your  Psyche,'  he  said, 
'  and  you  are  mine.'  '  But  you  cannot  crush 
me,'  she  answered. 

" '  Then  Renaro  heaved  a  great  sigh,  which 
shook  the  pomegranate  blossoms.  He  went 
out  hastily,  and  left  Inesilla  there.  When 
he  returned  she  was  asleep  by  the  fountain 
in  the  midst ;  the  sound  of  the  Avater,  as  a 
song  of  eternal  kisses,  had  lulled  her  sorrow 
till  it  dreamed  of  joy.  Renaro  approached 
her  with  stillness ;  his  feet  unshod,  he  held 
in  his  hand  the  gem-eii.crusted  slippers,  lest 


their  sound  on  the  marble  should  awaken 
her.  Her  long  hair  had  fallen  into  the 
water,  and  floated  wide  there  like  golden 
weeds ;  Renaro  lifted  it  from  the  water, 
wrung  it  from  its  dangerous  moisture,  and 
dried  it  on  the  folds  of  his  robe,  so  gently, 
all  so  tenderiy,  that  she  smiled  in  her  sleep, 
in  a  dream  that  her  mother  was  toying  Avith 
her  hair,  as  in  days  when  they  dressed  each 
other  with  flowers,  and  made  a  play  of  love. 
Renaro  laid  that  yet  damp  hair  back  from 
her  brow,  lest  its  chill  should  cross  her  sweet 
visions  with  the  cold  di-eam  of  death ;  then 
gathering  pomegranate  flowers  and  the  jas- 
mines which  had  come  from  her  own  land, 
he  laid  them  in  her  lap,  and  glided  from  the 
court  again,  again  sighing,  this  time  not 
loud  enough  to  shake  the  blossoms,  for 
fear  of  rudely  stirring  a  sweeter  blossom 
still' 

"  While  I  read,  Diamid  came  behind  'me, 
and  looked  over  my  shoulder.  I  felt  his 
breath  on  my  neck ;  I  would  not  move,  lest 
he  should  go  away.  When  I  arrived  at  the 
end  of  the  last  passage,  I  was  going  to  turn 
a  page.  '  Are  not  those  two  passages  con- 
tradictory to  each  other?  Critics  say  so, 
and  doomed  the  book  to  oblivion  long  ago  ; 
but  it  is  not  buried,  nevertheless,  I  suppose 
because  there  are  so  many  fools  left  in  the 
world,'  he  said. 

"  '  No,  no  ! '  I  said,  very  eagerly,  '  they  are 
not  contradictory  passages,  they  explain  each 
other.  He  did  exactly  Avhat  she  asked  him, 
and  did  it  to  prove  his  allegiance,  which  is 
further  proved  by  the  interest  of  a  man  so 
stern  and  inflexibly  drawn,  in  the  affair  of  a 
child  and  a  butterfly.  It  is  a  delicate  and 
subtle  touch,  quite  in  keeping  Avith  the  gen- 
tleness of  his  demeanor  afterwards.  I  agree 
Avith  all  this  author  Avrites,  and  understand 
all  too,  Avhich  is  more  than  I  can  say  for  any 
other  English  Avriter.  But  he  is  not  an 
English //(mA-e?-  —  he  only  subdues  the  lan- 
guage to  his  uses,  a  stubborn  instrument,  but 
so  entirely  his  slave.  Ah !  I  understand 
him,  and  Avish  I  could  see  him,  for  I  know 
him  without  seeing  him.  I  am  not  like  oavIs 
Avhich  see  best  in  the  dark,  or  bctts  Avhich 
love  to  fly  at  tAvilight ;  I  can  only  look  at  the 
light,  and  soar  toAvards  the  sun.'  I  don't 
knoAv  Avhat  rhapsody  I  Avas  going  to  utter, 
for  his  presence  gave  me  the  gift  of  language, 
as  the  music-god  of  the  north,  Spromkari,  — 
to  all  those  children  Avho  see  him  in  his  blue 
depths,  playing  on  the  eternal  harp,  —  giA'es 
the  gift  of  music.  But  Diamid  touched  my 
forehead  Avith  one  of  his  hands ;  I  turned  to 
him  straight,  I  looked  at  him.  He  said,  in 
tones  that  seemed  to  pierce  my  brain,  '  Thou 
understandest  all,  in  understanding  me!' 
And  before  I  could  breathe  again,  before  I 
could  even  Avonder  Avhat  he  meant " 

Here  the  Lady  and  Geraldine  started  both, 
and  both  exclaimed,  "  What  sound  Avas  that  P  " 
It  did  not  cease,  but  SAvelled  Avitli  a  volume 
and  a  voice  neither  of  the  Avin.d  nor  thunder. 


RUMOR. 


19 


It  was  music  certainly,  imperious  and  insur- 
gent, brimming  far  over,  and  flooding  its 
own  source. 

"  The  organ  !  "  cried  Lady  Delucy,  "  the 
old  organ  in  the  hall ;  but  who  can  be  play- 
ing, and,  above  all,  to  make  it  sound  so  ?- 
I  must  go  and  see."  And  she  left  Ger- 
aldine,  and  went. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Though  Geraldine  had  been  nurtured  in 
one  of  the  kingdoms  of  the  glory  of  song, 
she  had  heard  little  music,  and  understood 
less.  For  a  moment  or  two,  her  idolizing 
taste  for  her  husband's  deeds  and  words,  had 
been  wounded  by  her  companion's  putting 
them  by  so  easily  for  a  fresh  and  a  strange 
interest.  But  still  the  sound  grew,  surging 
stronger  and  richer,  till  the  diapason  woke 
sympathetic  vibrations  in  tlie  strings  of  the 
closed  piano,  and  made  the  chords  of  ihe 
covered  harp  shudder,  as  if  brushed  by  a 
hand  too  rude.  Then  Geraldine's  heart 
filled  with  the  passion  of  happiness  ;  it  pene- 
trated, and  seemed  to  create  a  new  desire, 
which  was  not  for  love  to  convict  of  some 
imperious  need  unfelt  before.  Soon  she  was 
in  the  hall  too. 

The  organ  in  the  hall  was  very  old,  and 
not  of  master-build.  Not  a  gleam  of  gild- 
ing remained  on  the  pipes,  from  whose 
points  cobwebs  hung  and  fluttered,  and  the 
cover  for  the  keys  had  been  lost  so  many 
years,  that  deposit  after  deposit  of  dust  had 
fallen  between  their  cracks,  half  choking  the 
sound  of  some,  and  dumbing  altogether  not 
a  few.  Still  before  the  organ  hung  its  cur- 
tain, once  red,  now  rust-hued  velvet,  and  the 
rings  which  held  it  to  the  rods  were  rusty 
too.  In  fact  for  years  the  instrument  had 
been  considered  useless,  and  only  the  con- 
servative pride  of  the  house  had  suflered  it 
to  remain  standing.  Yet  this  wreck,  this 
ruin,  this  body  from  which  one  would  have 
said  the  soul  had  fled,  seemed  in  this  hour  to 
have  its  mechanical  power  renovated  as  if  by 
its  long  rest,  and  a  soul  more  great  than  its 
own  possessed  it  newly. 

When  Lady  Delucy  went  into  the  hall,  the 
fii'st  thing  she  saw  was  a  group  of  her  own 
servants,  one  of  whom  was  dispensing  gos- 
sip, that  salt  of  servants'  lives,  to  the  rest. 
Being  the  senior  of  the  party,  he  grimaced 
with  fear  when  he  beheld  his  mistress.  She 
only  inquired,  however,  who  was  placing ? 

"  A  wild-looking,  wandering  sort  of  a  per- 
son," was  the  reply,  "  and  he  knocked  at  the 
front  entrance  door,  just  a  single  knock,  as 
sharp  and  sudden  as  a  shot,  and  when  I 
opened  it,  this  person  walks  in,  and  asks  for 
you,  my  lady,  not  like  a  gentleman's  servant, 
but  as  an  impostor  who  wishes  to  pass  for  a  | 


gentleman.  He  must  be  a  impostor  of  course 
or  would  have  knocked  a  double  knock, 
acting  as  a  gentleman.  I  says,  not  of  course 
thinking  it  mattered  whether  he  was  kept  or 
not,  '  you  can  stand  inside  while  I  inquire 
whether  my  lady  will  have  any  thing  to  say 
to  you,'  knowing  there  was  no  plate  in  the 
hall  except  the  fire-irons.  '  But,'  says  I, 
*  give  me  your  card  Mith  your  name,  or  1 
cannot  think  of  troubling  my  lady.'  He 
gives  me  this  scrap  of  paper,  and  who  could 
read  that  f  —  it's  not  writing  at  all !  While 
I  am  gone  to  see  whether  your  ladyship  is 
at  home  to  any  one  of  that  class,  he  spies 
out  (I  suppose)  the  horgan,  and  I  know  no 
more  than  that  I  and  the  rest  within  hear- 
shot,  run  in  to  remove  him ;  but  you  see, 
my  lady,  believing  him  to  be  a  lunatic  rather 
than  a  impostor,  why  naturally  we  couldn't 
agree  among  us  to  disturb  him,  knowing  no 
one  but  a  lunatic  could  play  so  on  the  hor- 
gan — //m^  horgan  in  particular." 

Lad)'  Delucy  took  the  paper,  and  read,  ic 
a  grotesque  German  hand,  the  name  of  a 
person  who  had  stopped  the  carriage  the 
night  before.  Now  Lady  Delucy  had  not 
forgotten  him ;  she  told  him  to  call  on  her 
that  day,  when  she  left  him  with  his  mother 
to  be  cared  for  at  the  vdiage  inn,  the  nighi 
before.  But  she  had  appointed  four  o'clock, 
as  she  had  fixed  employment  for  the  morn- 
ing—  engagements,  however,  which  Geral- 
dhie  had  been  permitted  to  break  through 
after  all.  But  Lady  Delucy  was  not  one  to 
be  severe  upon  artists  for  infringement  of 
social  rules,  or  M-ant  of  punctuality ;  upon 
real  artists  rather,  for  she  gave  no  quarter 
to  mimic  ones. 

The  voice  of  her  servant  worried  her,  as  it 
jarred  against  the  noble  music  ;  she  sent  him 
and  all  the  rest  away,  and  then  stood  still  to 
listen.  As  for  the  servants,  they  vanished 
precipitately,  not  without  noise,  which  such 
persons  usually  manage  to  make,  most  of  all 
when  they  are  trying  to  be  quiet.  Once  in 
their  own  place,  the  seasoning  of  their  dis- 
course grew  still  more  stinging. 

"  My  lady's  ways  and  whimseys  is  not 
strange,  being  met  with  as  she  was  by  my 
lord.  I  hope  and  pray  this  strange  man 
won't  harm  her  —  but  to  leave  her  all  alone 
with  him  !  Supposing  he  Mas  to  go  into  one 
of  his  lunacies  while  here  ?  " 

"  /  only  hope  he  is  no  more  than  a  luna- 
tic," observed  a  younger  member  of  the  reti- 
nue, one  M'ho  had  shared  the  quite  modern 
benefits  of  a  course  of  popular  education. 
All  the  others  looked  up  to  him,  as  coming 
from  London,  and  having  attended  lectures 
on  all  subjects,  occult  and  familiar. 

"  What  could  be  worse  ?  "  they  asked ; 
"  what  did  he  uiean  ?  " 

"  I  don't  mean  any  thing,  for  I  don't  know, 
and  without  knowing  there's  no  meaning ; 
but  I  do  remember  heai-ing  of  the  fiddler 
who  had  only  one  string  to  his  fiddle,  which 
the  devil  screwed  on  for  him,  which  was 


20 


RUMOR. 


show  n  in  this,  that  if  any  other  fiddler  hap- 
pened to  play  .oil  it  (but  he  was  always  much 
against  their  doing  it),  why,  they  only  made 
it  squeak  and  set  your  teeth  on  edge ;  and 
yet  he,  the  fiddler  it  belonged  to,  could  play 
music  and  keep  your  mouths  open  as  well  as 
youi-  ears,  on  that  very  one  string,  soft  and 
loud  equally." 

"  What  was  his  name  ?  "  asked  one  of  the 
housemaids. 

"I  can't  exactly  remember,  but  it  was 
•  jmething  like  Pagan,  and  a  Pagan  he  was, 
or  worse,  which  I  believe  myself.  1  believe 
in  the  devil ;  I  think  it  a  part  of  religion  ;  nor 
am  I  a  Dissenter  —  I  renounced  the  devil  at 
the  font." 

"  But  how  could  he  be  the  devil,  if  the 
devil  fastened  on  the  string  ?  " 

"  Is  not  that  what  I  Avas  wishing  to  bring 
you  to  ?  Do  not  fiddlers  fasten  on  their  own 
strings?  AVell,  that  proves  him  to  have 
been  the  devil,  and  the  devil,  we  are  expres- 
sively told,  walks  about  seeking  whom  he 
may  devour,  and  what  more  likely  but  that 
being  a  spirit,  and  able  to  change  his  shape, 
he  should  have  taken  fust  to  the  fiddle,  and 
take  to  the  horgan  noio  ?  " 

"  But  still  people  have  played  on  that  hor- 
gan," observed  a  sceptical  scullery  maid, 
wlio,  in  the  excitement  of  the  time,  had  been 
allowed  to  approach  her  superiors  as  she 
was  not  wont,  "or  else  what  was  it  made 
for,  and  put  up  in  the  hall  ?  " 

"  Certainly  people  has  played  on  it,  but 
clothes  wear  out,  and  so  do  horgans.  Han- 
del, who  wrote  those  long  pieces  called 
oritorias,  one  of  which  I  heard  in  London,  a 
Cliristmas  piece  called  Messiah.  He  played 
on  that  horgan  once,  more  than  one  hundred 
years  ago.  And  to  show  its  age,  the  long 
parts  of  the  keys  wjjich  are  made  black  in 
cur  proper  church  norgans,  are  made  white 
in  that  one,  and  the  white  parts  of  the  keys 
black." 

"  Ah,"  said  the  old  porter,  who  had  spoken 
to  his  mistress,  "  I  recollect  once,  when  my 
little  lady  was  a  tiny  roaming  thing  of  six  or 
so,  she  come  roaming  into  the  hall  one  night 
when  I  was  putting  logs  on  the  hall  fire. 
My  little  lady  says,  '  Prout,'  she  says,  as 
pn  tty  as  she  always  speaks,  '  will  you  just 
mas^e  a  little  wind  come  into  the  organ  ?  I 
want  to  try  and  put  down  one  of  those  keys. 
Mamma  says  they  are  too  heavy,  and  that  I 
cannot ;  but  if  I  could,  it  would  surprise 
mamma  very  much,  would  it  not, Prout?' 

':  Of  course  I  did  it,  with  pleasure,  and  I 
declare  I  think  it  pretty  near  as  hard  to  play 
the  bellors  as  to  play  the  horgan,  at  all 
events  I  did  play  the  bellors,  and  my  little 
lady  could  not  play  the  horgan.  Not  with 
all  the  strength  of  her  little  fists  piled  one 
on  the  other,~Could  she  get  down  one  note. 
I  remember  then  my  little  lady  says,  '  It's  no 
use,  Prout,  but  I  thank  you,'  she  always 
«aid  /  thank  you,  so  grand  and  yet  so  pretty. 
Then  I  come  round  iu  front,   and  she  is 


playing  with  the  keys,  if  she  can't  upor 
them.  She  calls  the  long  white  keys  ladies 
coffins,  and  the  black  parts  marble  pave- 
ments, and  says,  '  no  wonder  they  are  dead, 
being  made  to  listen  to  music,  and  the  music 
being  dead.'  And  she  finishes  by  rubbing 
her  pretty  little  fingers  all  along  the  dust 
and  smearing  it  all  over  her  face.  And  her 
nurse  comes,  snatches  her  up,  and  scolds  me 
rarely." 

"I  give  you  a  last  proof,"  here  broke  ir 
the  devil-ridden.  "  The  devil  and  no  mis- 
take !  There  is  no  one  blowing  the  bellows, 
and  Prout  is  well  aware  as  I  am,  that  no 
one  besides  the  devil  could  make  wind  for 
himself" 

"  Then  my  lady  might  be  whisked  out  of 
window  in  a  flame  of  sulphureous  fire,  like 
Lady  Hatton  in  the  play." 

"  That  was  because  Lady  Hatton  sold 
herself  to  him  to  get  a  sweetheart ;  —  my 
lady  living  all  by  herself  is  safe  enough  for 
that." 

"  She  may  live  all  alone  by  herself,  but 
she  sees  people  sometimes  —  and  just  before 
he  went  abroad,  Mr.  Albany  was  in  and  out 
in  her  own  room,  through  the  door  in  the 
wall  —  not  coming  round  the  right  way  of 
the  front  entrance." 

To  this  theory  the  majority  only  gave  con- 
sent by  silence. 

And  was  the  lady  astonished  that  the 
organ,  Avithout  wind  to  feed  it,  should  give 
out  a  greater  than  its  own  voice  ?  She  did 
not  think  about  it  at  all,  nor  find  time  to 
wonder  ;  she  remembered  no  more  the  actual 
decay ;  thus  repaired,  the  dim  pipes  filled 
fresh  with  golden  tongues.  So  masterly  was 
the  hand  that  thus  created,  that  she  almost 
feared  the  masterhood  of  the  creating  pres- 
ence. She  would  have  doubted  the  possi- 
bility of  the  player's  being  so  young  as  the 
person  who  had  given  her  the  letter,  but  for 
the  fact  that  the  name  on  the  scrap  of  paper 
in  her  hand  was  the  name  mentioned  in  the 
letter  from  one  she  had  benefited  in  his 
neediest  days,  who  now  commended  to  her 
notice  another  needy  aspirant.  All  at  once, 
while  she  was  lost  in  the  improvisation,  jast 
as  one  progresses  spiritually  in  a  dream,  not 
knowing  the  end,  enrapt  in  expectation,  the 
dream  broke  off'  short :  just  as  in  a  rude 
awakening  from  sleep. 

"  Are  you  tired  ?  "  asked  a  voice,  which 
sounded  after  the  music  strangely  harsh 
and  rude.  Then  the  lady  heard  a  rustling, 
and  steps  ;  she  was  sure  tuat  some  second 
])erson  moved  behind  the  organ,  coming 
forward  to  the  front ;  still  the  curtains  were 
undrawn  ;  it  was  not  her  the  voice  addressed. 

No  longer  fearing  to  dissipate  the  dream, 
she  walked  up  to  the  curtains,  and  very 
gently  drew  them  aside.  Behind  them,  as 
she  expected,  sat  the  youth  ;  beside  him  now 
stood  his  mother,  who  on  seeing  Lady  De- 
lucy  fell  into  a  nervous  fluster,  which  entu-eiy 
deprived  her  of  utterance,  though   it  made 


RUMOR. 


iil 


her  cough  spasmodically  for  many  moments. 
As  for  the  player,  he  had  dropped  his  eyes 
gloomily,  like  a  moping  owl  in  the  sunshine, 
and  his  hair,  which  was  in  color  and  texture 
not  unlike  tlie  down  of  the  owl's  breast,  fell 
forward  (as  if  recently  shaken)  over  the 
brows  ;  so  completely  covering  that  crown 
of  the  countenance,  the  forehead,  that  the 
lady  could  not  the  least  guess  at  its  struc- 
ture, nor  even  trace  its  size.  By  the  fresh 
and  aU-revealing  daylight  she  perceived  that 
the  face  she  scanned  was  in  fact,  as  the 
world  Avould  have  decided,  irremediably 
plain ;  to  her  it  was  interesting  for  other 
reasons,  but  most  of  all  because  of  that  same 
harmonious  ugliness,  for  each  feature  being 
plain  by  itself,  the  effect  was  far  more  agree- 
able to  an  artistic  vision  than  might  be  a 
face  with  one  lovely  feature,  distorted  by  the 
ugliness  of  the  rest  to  the  discord  unavoida- 
ble in  such  a  case. 

The  skin  of  this  face  was  colorless,  but 
neither  white  nor  fair  ;  of  a  dry  sallow  tint, 
w^hich  attested  a  condition  of  bodily  ill- 
health.  Years  upon  years  of  experience  be- 
yond the  natural  portion  of  so  young  a  life, 
had  folded  too  straitly  the  thin  line  of  the 
lips  ;  there  was  still  a  charm  for  which  the  lady 
had  an  eye  in  the  expression  absolutely  unsen- 
sual,  which  the  severity  of  the  line  imparted  ; 
while  yet  the  face  retained  the  whole  burden 
of  the  passion  of  youth,  unshared.  Unmiti- 
gated —  virgin  yet.  The  lady  interpreted  all 
these  meanings,  for  she  was  a  student  of 
such  whenever  they  pi-esented  themselves, 
but  they  would  have  been  veiled  from  other 
eyes  by  a  prevailing  aspect  of  despair,  in- 
creased by  the  expression  of  the  figure,  more 
sharply  lined  than  even  the  face,  more  droop- 
ing still,  the  torture  of  restrained  restlessness 
in  its  rigid  attitude. 

The  lady's  eyes  filled  with  the  light,  if  not 
the  tears  of  pity  —  but  she  took  care  he 
should  not  see  them.  She  stood  behind 
him,  and  soon  her  kindly  smile  reassured 
the  mother ;  it  struck  her  that  she  could  not 
speak  EngHsh  easily,  and  she  addressed  her 
in  her  own  tongue. 

"Your  son  has  a  wonderful  talent  for 
music,"  she  observed.  The  son  did  not  stir, 
nor  move  his  eyes. 

"  Oh,"  began  the  woman  fluently  enough, 
after  the  fashion  of  her  class,  when  once 
their  tongues  are  loosed.  "  Oh,  I  do  not 
know  what  to  say,  how  to  apologize,  for  my 
great  misconduct  in  coming  in.  You  had 
ordered  him  to  come  alone,  my  lady,  and  he 
would  not  wait  till  the  hour  "you  had  ap- 
pointed ;  1  followed  him  close,  as  I  always 
do  when  he  walks  about,  for  fear  he  should 
fall  into  a  ditch,  or  walk  straight  against  a 
wall.  But  when  he  arrived  I  waited  outside, 
as  it  was  right  for  me  to  do.  In  a  minute 
he  opened  the  door,  and  pulled  me  in  ;  his 
arm  was  so  strong,  and  his  eyes  shone  so, 
that  I  was  afraid  of  his  having  *a  fever  of  the 
Drain,  for  the  doctoi-s  warned  me  never  to 


cross  him,  not  when  he^^»a^oinvjears  old 
and  broke  all  the  wine  g^!te^t,(^r'ge  and 
small,  by  putting  water  into  thf^^^^id  play- 
ing cathedral  chimes.  And  not  liking  the 
sounds  he  made  so  well  as  those  chimes  — 
the  finest  in  all  Hanover  —  he  took  the  little 
stick  and  smashed  them  one  by  one."  While 
she  so  ran  on,  the  son  looked  up  and  xhe 
lady  did  not  see  how  he  glanced  at  his 
mother,  because  she  stood  on  the  other  side, 
but  the  glance  checked  her  tongue.  Then 
he  turned  to  the  lady,  who  smiled  ;  but  it 
was  evident  to  her,  that,  at  once  he  had  de- 
tected the  pity  that  softened  her  eyes,  for  a 
livid  haughtiness  fell  upon  his  face,  like  the 
shadow  of  a  sultry  cloud ;  it  was  Avith  it  as 
with  a  clear  complexion  when  it  blusbr^s, 
divided  between  pride  and  shame.  The 
eager  voice,  deepened  from  its  usual  harsh 
medium,  seemed  to  convey  that  haughtiness 
to  another  sense  than  sight.  "  The  lady 
could  not  blame  me  for  handling  her  organ 
—  /  could  not  have  handled  it  too  long." 

"  Herman,  Herman  !  "  cried  the  mother 
again,  in  affright. 

"  Lady,  I  pray  you,  forgive  him,  he  is  so 
wild  upon  music  that  he  has  no  respect  of 
persons ;  he  has  made  an  idol  of  it,  and  it 
prevents  his  giving  honor  where  honor  is 
due  both  to  God  and  man." 

The  lady  noticed  a  twang  in  these  last  few 
words  very  unusual  among  associations  of 
her  country,  how  common  soever  in  this. 
•She  saw  too,  how  they  grated  on  the  son's 
ear,  but  still  he  turned  not  to  speak  ;  his 
mother  could  perceive  this ;  bitterly  the  thin 
lips  curled,  but  no  bitter  answer  came. 

"  Your  son  is  quite  right  to  say  he  could 
not  play  too  long  ;  I  am  only  astonished  that 
he  can  play  at  all  upon  an  instrument  so 
unworthy  of  him,  and  so  completely  worn 
out." 

"  Do  you  know  ?  "  he  exclaimed,  speaking 
harshly,  eagerly  again,  "  do  you  know  what 
it  shows,  what  it  proves,  that  I  can  play  on 
it?  Do  you  know  that  it  is  not  only  bad 
because  it  is  old,  1)ut  that  the  day  it  was  set 
up  it  ought  to  have  been  pulled  down  again, 
and  broken  into  bits  and  sticks,  and  made 
into  a  bonfire  ?  And  the  maker  should  have 
been  roasted  in  the  midst,  if  indeed  any  fire 
could  have  been  hot  enough  to  burn  through 
so  thick  a  skull  —  except  the  hottest " 

"  Herman  !  Herman  !  "  broke  in  the  moth- 
er, and  he  left  the  dooming  sentence  unfin- 
ished   still  persisted, 

"  Lady,  do  you  know  what  it  is  to  make 
music  from  a  lump  like  this  ?  " 

"  It  is  genius,"  said  the  lady,  for  want  of  * 
better  word. 

"  It  is  creation.  It  is  what  made  the  world; 
it  is  what  He  who  made  aU  things  only  gives 
the  lords  of  men." 

"  Herman  !   Herman  !  " 

"  You  have  said  so,  mother.  Why  did  you 
give  me  the  name  lord -man  ?  " 

"  Hush  —  thou  knowest,  all  know  who  do 


22 


RUMOK. 


not  shut  their  ears,  that  all  are  alike  tefore 
God." 

"  But  not  before  man,"  he  muttered.  The 
lady  came  again  to  his  rehef. 

"  Is  the  organ  your  fiivorite,  your  own  in- 
strument ?  "  she  asked.  He  looked  full  at 
her,  and  his  small  gray  eyes  filled  as  it  were 
from  behind  tlie  iris  with  pale,  gleaming  fire 
—  the  true  magnetic  light.  A  sudden  power 
seized  him  to  express  in  words. 

"  Your  question  could  only  have  been 
thought  of,  and  asked  with  a  view  to  a  reply, 
by  a  woman.  Oh  lady,  women  are  very  use- 
ful to  musicians  in  all  but  the  highest,  —  in 
dramatic  parts.  They  are  divine,  in  divine 
dramatic  parts,  equally  the  World-divine,  — 
the  Oljmpian,  —  parts  of  majestic  passion, 
or  sublimated  crime  ;  —  and  the  Spiritual 
divine,  —  parts  angelic,  of  tender  chastity,  or 
all-sacrificing  love.  Women  are  priceless,  or 
rather  slaves  to  be  purchased  at  any  cost,  by 
musicians  for  the  use  of  music.  But  as  for 
women  being  musicians  themselves, — why, 
the  pianoforte  was  made  for  women  —  that  is 
quite  enough." 

"Made  for  women?"  interrupted  Lady 
Delucy,  amused  rather  than  surprised.  "  Yes, 
made  for  them,  an  invention  patented  by 
benevolent  persons  on  their  account.  How 
many  women,  answer  me,  play  otlter  instru- 
ments, instruments  for  the  orchestra,  as  well 
as  most  women  play  the  pianoforte  P  " 

"  They  are  the  exceptions,  certainly,"  said 
the  lady. 

"Exceptions!  and  exceptions  among  wo- 
vien,  who  all  imitate  each  other!  —  few 
enough  are  such  exceptions.  The  pianoforte 
is  a  toy,  and  for  the  most  part  women  treat 
their  pianofortes  just  as  they  treated  their 
toys  when  they  were  children,  petted  them 
and  knocked  them  about,  often  spoiled 
them  altogether,  now  and  then  swaddled 
them  in  wool,  and  did  not  play  Avith  them 
ftt  all." 

"  That  is  true,  certainly  !  " 

"  And  as  true,  that  when  women  are  not 
satisfied  with  their  own  rights  in  art,  it  hap- 
pens as  it  does  when  dissatisfied  with  their 
own  rights  in  life  as  women ;  they  try  to  scale 
ihe  heights,  they  bruise  and  break  their  frail 
fi'ames  against  the  rocks ;  and  if  a  woman, 
j>o  trying  physically  to  attain  what  she  need 
not  covet  —  for  spiritually  she  is  able  to  em- 
brace it  —  if  such  a  woman  does  not  perish, 
self-hurled  to  destruction,  she  remains  an 
exception,  as  you  say,  a  monster ;  soon  she 
hates  herself."  The  lady  was  surprised,  but 
she  gloried  in  any  thing  that  resembled  an 
encounter  of  two  minds  agreed  to  differ. 

"  How  then  ?  "  she  asked,  "  Cecilia  was 
herself  a  Saintess." 

"  Madam,  Cecilia  was  unmarried  —  that  is 
sufHcient  to  ])rove  her  beyond  all  women ; 
an  angel.  Cecilia  was  a  type.  We  call  all 
Art  feminine,  because  it  aspires." 

"  Woman  reaches  out  her  arms  to  man, 
the  truer  to  nature  and  to  beauty,  the  more 


fully  she  opens  her  arms,  still  always  to  the 
One,  that  shall  fill  and  satisfy,  not  to  the 
many,  who  pass  through  them  to  elude  her. 
So  does  Art  —  above  all,  Art-Musical,  stretch 
in  all  her  strength  to  God.  And  as  God  is 
infinite,  phantoms  of  perfection  all  briglit 
with  the  brightness  of  His  presence,  pass 
one  by  one  through  the  dreams  of  Art,  they 
elude  her  embrace  only  to  give  room  to  fresh 
and  pure  celestial  visions  ;  we  call  that  Cre- 
ation, it  is  the  progress  of  a  Soul.  Finite 
while  human,  the  faithful  man,  with  his  single 
impression,  fills  the  arms  of  the  f.iitlif'ul 
woman.  That  woman  is  slave,  not  child  of 
Art.  I  give  you  a  proof.  Possessing  what 
you  call  Genius,  she  will  throw  it  by,  cast  it 
to  the  winds  —  nay,  lay  it  at  the  feet  of  the 
man  she  loves,  and  bid  him  tread  it  into  the 
dust  of  things  forgotten,  if  only  his  opinions 
or  pursuits  agree  not  with  the  habits  of 
Genius.  I  grant  that  a  woman  may  have 
genius,  —  most  unhappy  mind,  and  thirsty 
soul!  though  I  would  have  her  calmly  wise, 
fit  to  worship  as  she  is  meet  to  love.  A 
woman  may  be  a  poetess  of  the  holy  passion, 
she  may  discuss  in  books  what  men's  natures 
dare  never  expose  to  themselves,  much  less 
to  others.  She  may  clothe  heroism  and 
grace  with  the  material  immortality  of  sculp- 
ture. She  may  paint  —  that  is  to  say,  she 
may  commune  with  the  color-art  as  nuns  in 
convents  keep  up  their  communication  with 
their  celestial  bridegroom  ;  by  yearnings,  by 
fastings,  by  self-imposition  and  perpetually- 
recurring  disappointment.  But  music  !  — 
Song,  indeed,  is  a  wreath  of  woman ;  it 
crowns  with  unearthly  loveliness  her  fairest 
charms,  it  gives  her  beauty  if  she  has  none 
else ;  it  gives  her  wings  if  she  is  pure,  and 
she  soars  before  death  into  the  nearest 
heaven,  and  drops  on  us  influences,  holier 
than  the  star-influences,  dreams  of  passion 
incorruptible.  But  song  is  not  the  whole  of 
music,  it  is  a  ray  only  of  the  rainbow,  or 
rather,  the  most  artless  form  of  musical  ex- 
pression, giving  just  such  tender  beauty  to 
Art  M'hen  it  assists  it,  as  infancy  gives  human 
nature." 

The  lady  ceased  to  be  surprised  ;  she  was 
absorbed  in  growing  interest.  The  shrill 
tones  had  mounted  to  a  lofty  pitch,  so  that 
their  metallic  clarity  struck  throug}  the  face 
changed  as  visibly  as  an  autumn  nndscape 
when  the  sun  pierces  the  fog  that  mantled  it 
—  the  gray  eyes  fixed,  and  delicate  lights 
played  over  them  like  the  steady  electric 
smiles  of  a  fervent  summer  night.  When  he 
ceased  speaking,  of  course  the  lightnings 
faded,  the  eyes  grew  dim,  yet  the  face  re- 
tained its  brightness  somewhat,  and  the 
hands  qjiiver^d  silently  over  the  keys,  though 
they  formed  no  clustering  chord.  The  lady 
grew  actually  impatient  if  he  'did  not  play ; 
she  must  hear  him  go  on  speaking. 

"  Then  you  did  not  tell  me  which  instru- 
ment you  love  best  to  play — though  you 
told  me  (and  taught  me)  a  good  deal  besides, 


RUMOR. 


9  A 


which,  peihaps,  it  is  good  to  know,  that  we 
may  not  think  too  highly  of  ourselves." 

"  I  did  not  tell  you  to  take  you  down.  I 
have  no  instrument,  as  the  cant  is,  and  the 
ignorant  boast ;  God  be  thanked  for  that ! 
Unless  the  musician  can  play  with  all  instru- 
ments for  his  own  purposes,  he  is  but  the  in- 
strument of  music  himself.  Only  so  far  as 
he  commands  them  all,  is  he  himself  music 
—  least  finite  image  of  the  Eternal." 

"  You  do  not  then  satisfy  yourself  in  play- 
ing ?  " 

"  That  time  has  long  been  past  with  me,  or 
I  should  not  be  hdre.  I  dream  now  —  like 
the  Spirit  of  God  moving  upon  the  fiice  of 
the  waters,  so  stir  my  shadows,  dim  shapes 
of  sound,  across  the  chaos  of  my  fathomless 
intention." 

"I  knew  not,"  murmured  the  lady  half 
unconsciously,  when  he  paused  again, — 
"that  musicians  could  so  speak — could  so 
discourse  of  what  alone  they  understand  ;  it 
is  strange  and  new." 

The  mother,  who  had  been  nearly  asleep 
during  a  rhapsody  which  was  hke  a  sermon 
in  a  foreign  language  to  her  ear,  now  woke 
up  and  yawned.  A  sort  of  shiver  shook  his 
frame,  as  the  cross  influence  smote  him,  and 
he  sank  into  the  old  attitude,  with  more  than 
the  old  restraint. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

While  Lady  Delucy  was  talking  to  her 
new  and  singular  acquaintance,  she  had  for- 
gotten, in  her  artistic  enthusiasm,  her  other 
friend,  scarcely  of  less  recent  introduction. 
Geraldinehad  listened  to  the  music  first  with 
wonder  and  delight ;  then  with  mingling 
wonder  whether  Diamid, who  admired  scarcely 
any  playing,  would  admire  this.  But  when 
it  ceased,  she  grew  weary,  and  finding  Lady 
Delucy  did  not  return  to  look  for  her,  she 
persuaded  herself  it  was  quite  time  for  her 
to  go  home,  that  she  might  be  ready  to  greet 
her  husband  on  his  return.  She  left  a  little 
note  on  the  table  in  the  room  where  she  had 
been  talking  to  Lady  Delucy,  explaining  this, 
and  bidding  her  farewell. 

The  lady  was  glad  to  see  her  daughter 
and  Colonel  Lyonhart  come  into  the  hall, 
for  the  ])ause  in  the  player's  behavior  made 
her  nervous ;  she  scarcely  knew  what  to  say 
or  do  next.  She  left  him  and  hastened  to 
meet  Elizabeth.  "  Have  you  heard  any 
thing  while  you  were  in  the  garden  ?  "  she 
asked  her.  "  Young  Rodomant  has  been 
playing.  No  praise  can  exaggerate  his 
merits.     Schenk  has  spoken  well." 

"  We  were  too  far  from  the  house, 
mamma ;  we  went  to  the  village,  for  we 
thought  he  and  his  mother  would  want  a 
lodging ;  there  are  two  rooms  to  let  in  the 
white  cottage." 


low  yet,  I  have  not  seen  him 
sl^hld  like  him  to  stay  Jiere.^ 
»^*^hecked  her.     For  Eliz- 


"  I  do  not 

alone  yet. 
Ehzabeth's  sr 
abeth  could  recall  several  melancholy, 
though  diverting  instances  of  her  mother's 
excessive  benevolence.  One  that  of  a  gen- 
tleman who  spoke  broken  English,  and 
announced  himself  as  a  German  artist,  car- 
rying with  him  a  portfolio  of  magnificent 
foreign  sketches,  and  a  letter  of  introduc- 
tion from  one  of  the  princes  of  German 
artists,  but  who  could  not  sketch,  because 
he  had  broken  his  arm  (still  in  a  sling)  in 
the  overturn  of  a  diligence.  He  was  lodged 
and  boarded  sumptuously  for  a  fortnight,  at 
the  end  of  which  time  there  appeared  in  the 
Times  an  advertisement  of  that  same  port- 
folio, the  actual  property  of  the  artist,  who 
was  said  to  have  written  the  letter.  An  ex- 
ceedingly large  reward  was  ofl'ered  for  the 
sketches,  if  restored ;  and  Lady  Delucy 
hast°ned  to  the  rooms  she  had  appropriated 
to  her  visitor,  but  found  him  already  gone ; 
he  had  received  the  information  before  she 
did,  having  taken  his  copy  of  the  paper 
himself,  out  of  the  letter  box,  the  instant  it 
was  deposited  therein  by  the  postman,  and 
being  aware  that  Lady  Delucy  seldom  looked 
at  hers  till  after  breakfast.  Not  only  had 
he  gone,  but  though  she  wrote  to  the  artist 
directly,  she  had  to  send  to  town  for  his  ad- 
dress, and  her  friend  reached  him  Jirst,  and 
made  his  story  appear  so  plausible  that  he 
received  the  reward.  He  was  at  last  caught, 
with  the  forged  letter  still  upon  his  person, 
but  he  had  then  spent  the  money.  Another 
time  Lady  Delucy  had  done  a  great  deal  for 
a  man  who  played  upon  the  harp,  very  well 
too,  but  in  the  streets,  and  who  prevailed 
upon  her  innocence,  to  believe  that  his  fa- 
ther, a  man  of  social  position,  had  turned 
him  out  of  doors,  because  he  persisted  in 
the  study  of  art.  She  procured  him  a  good 
many  pupils  besides  her  own  daughter,  and 
one  morning  M-hen  he  was  left  alone  in  the 
dining  room  for  about  five  minutes,  he 
pocketed  and  vanished  with  six  golden 
spoons  and  a  silver  pap-boat,  enriched  with 
emeralds,  out  of  the  side-board  closet. 

Lady  Delucy  knew  she  had  often  been 
deceived,  but  her  benevolence  had  in  those 
cases  misled  her  judgment,  being  fii-st  ex- 
cited. In  this  instance,  her  judgment  had 
been  formed  first.  She  had  not  been  pre- 
possessed, nor  did  she  know  the  youth  was 
absolutely  poor ;  she  thought  he  only 
wanted  patronage.  Her  daughter's  smile, 
however,  made  her  very  anxious  that  Eliz- 
abeth should  herself  judge  of  the  power 
and  the  skill  which  so  enchanted  her.  It 
was  evident  that  Elizabeth  only  went  to 
please  her  mother ;  but  she  did  go  with  her 
to  the  organ  —  having  given  Colonel  Lyon- 
hart a  look,  which  asked  him  to  go  too. 

"  jSIy  daughter,"  said  Lady  Delucy,. 
"  wishes  to  renew  her  acquaintance  witih 
you  —  she  scarcely  saw  you  last  night." 


24 


RIIMOR. 


Elizabeth's  sweet  smile  and  expressive 
eyes  were  sweetest  and  most  eloquent  for 
the  musician,  just  because  she  did  not  ad- 
mire him  at  all ;  she  pitied  his  pallid  and 
rugged  countenance,  his  writhing  restless- 
ness awakened  newly,  his  despairing  ex- 
pression, that  almost  implied  self-disgust. 
Now,  to  Lady  Delucy's  extreme  annoyance, 
the  gloom  which  had  filmed  his  eyes  melt- 
ed not  the  least,  it  overspread  his  whole 
countenance,  and  an  unutterable  awkward- 
ness possessed  his  frame ;  he  stooped,  he 
shrugged,  he  shook  himself  like  some  wikl 
animal  disturbed  in  its  lair  by  man,  and 
ended  by  burying  his  face  in  his  hands, 
and  placing  his  elbows  on  the  key-board. 
So  he  staid  a  while  ;  but  only  while  his 
mother  was  again  courtesying  and  apologiz- 
ing. She  began  to  cry  at  last ;  and  then  he 
looked  up,  and  said  in  his  harshest  tones, 
yet  not  without  respect  in  his  manner  to 
Lady  Delucy,  — 

"  Am  I  to  play  any  more  ?  because  if  not, 
I  must  go."  How  respectful  soever  he  was 
to  her,  he  turned  his  back  completely  on 
Elizabeth  and  her  lover. 

"  I  wish  my  daughter  to  hear  you  play,  if 
you  are  not  tired."  For  she  hoped  his 
playing  would  dissipate  the  disagreeable 
eflect  he  had  personally  produced. 

"  I  am  very  willing,"  he  answered,  "  but 
she,"  pointing  to  his  mother,  "has  not 
strength  to  blow  any  longer ;  and  without 
wind  I  can  but  make  these  keys  rattle  like 
old  bones.  However,  to  the  ears  of  asses, 
and  some  men,  it  would  be  as  agreeable  and 
profitable  if  I  rattled  them  as  if  I  played." 
And  he  rattled  them  with  his  knuckles. 

Lady  Delucy  was  very  glad  that  Colonel 
Lyonhart,  who  understood  almost  every  Ori- 
ental dialeot,  was  profoundly  ignorant  of  all 
European  languages  but  EngKsh.  She  sent 
in  all  haste  for  one  of  the  servants,  who 
came  ;  but  would  not  have  dared  to  come 
had  his  ladies  been  alone ;  for  Colonel  Lyon- 
hart was  looked  upon  by  the  household  at 
large  in  the  same  sort  of  light  as  a  police- 
man —  an  infallible  protector  against  natural 
or  diabolical  dangers. 

Sorely  did  the  lady  repent  her  ignorance 
of  a  phenomenon  of  character  she  had  not 
happened  to  meet  with  before.  Rodomant 
put  out  the  whole  power  of  the  organ,  and 
laying  his  hands  on  as  many  keys  as  they 
would  cover,  commenced  a  series  of  awful 
noises,  hideous  and  ridiculous ;  yet  various 
as  the  streams  of  nightbirds,  the  squalls  of 
grimalkins,  the  howls  of  beasts,  the  groans 
of  those  in  the  extremity  of  sea-sickness, 
whole  masses  of  fiats,  sharps,  and  naturals  — 
those  next-door  neighbors,  and  bitter  ene- 
mies, held  on  together,  till  the  ear  was  set  as 
it  were  on  edge,  like  the  teeth  by  a  virulent 
acid.  At  last  the  bolt  of  musical  revenge 
fell,  in  a  crash  of  dissonances,  a  chaotic  strum 
too  loud  to  be  endured ;  and  every  one  fled 
ihe  field,  except  Lady  Delucy,  who  indeed 


could  not  move  for  laughing,  and  whose  firfct 
anger  had  subsided  into  the  sympathy  of  one 
who  had  been  the  most  delicate  of  comic 
actresses,  and  drawn  smiles  to  a  thousand 
lips  by  the  least  dimpling  relaxation  of  hei 
serene  soft  face.  Rodomant's  mother  ran 
away  first ;  then  EHzabeth,  who  staid  as  ' 
long  as  she  could  bear  it,  because  in  her  sim- 
plicity she  really  thought  he  was  playing  hia 
best ;  and  who,  when  she  did  move,  glided  so 
gently  away  that  no  one  heard  her  in  the 
midst  of  the  other  noise.  Charles  Lyonhart, 
following  close  beside  her,  slammed  the  hall 
door  with  his  whole  strength,  in  a  sort  of 
heroic  rage,  because  Elizabeth's  ears  had 
been  so  tortured,  and  her  sweet  grace  insulted 
by  one  —  upon  whom  he  conferred  various 
epithets  in  Hindostanee,  which  it  would  be 
difficult  even  at  Billingsgate  to  parallel  in 
the  English  language. 

With  the  banging  of  the  door  the  noise  of 
the  organ  ceased.  Rodomant  looked  up  in 
the  lady's  face  with  a  droll,  satisfied  smile ; 
not  arch,  for  the  lips  were  not  curved  enough 
to  assume  such  an  expression,  but  confiding 
and  mild  withal ;  —  while  he  touched  here 
and  there  a  note,  or  gathered  and  let  go  again 
a  chord,  softly  and  fitfully  as  a  butterfly  now 
brushes  a  rose,  now  lights  upon  a  pansy. 

"  I  have  sent  him  away !  "  he  said  trium- 
phantly. 

"  You  were  very  cruel,"  said  the  lady,  "  for 
he  has  never  heard  music  such  as  yours,  and 
it  would  have  done  him  good.  I  also  partic- 
ularly desired  that  my  daughter  should  be 
enchanted,  as  she  might  have  been  if  you  had 
done  yourself  the  smallest  possible  justice," 

"  I  was  not  thinking  about  her  being  en- 
chanted—  I  only  could  not  have  him  near 
me  ;  and  as  to  playing,  that  was  good  enough 
for  him.  He  is  a  person  who  considers  music 
a  craft  for  vagabonds,  half  wits,  and  men  who 
faint  at  the  sight  of  blood.  He  does  not 
even  know  M'hat  art  means,  but  what  he  un- 
derstands by  it  he  despises.  He  thinks  us 
all  dissipated,  extravagant,  and  vain  as 
women.  We  are  voluptuous,  spendthrifts, 
weeds  of  the  devil's  growing  in  God's  great 
field  —  the  world.  You  cannot  contradict 
me,  it  is  all  true  that  I  have  said." 

It  was  so  true  that  she  could  not  contradict 
him.  Charles  Lyonhart,  like  most  men  first  ) 
in  their  own  worldly  order  and  clinging  to  a 
worldly  profession  with  a  tenacity  renown 
has  riveted,  was  ignorant  of  the  claims  of 
those  whose  profession,  if  it  can  be  so  called, 
is  eminently  unworldly,  how  dependent  so- 
ever its  votaries  be  on  the  world  for  suste- 
nance. As  little  worldly-wise,  less  worldly- 
prudent,  and  of  no  use  in  the  world  at  all,  he 
esteemed  all  artists  of  every  class.  Lady 
Delucy  had  spent  many  hours  in  vainly  con- 
trasting this  prejudice  in  his  mind,  and  had 
given  it  up  at  last  through  the  conviction 
that  it  must  arise  from  a  want  of  passion  in 
his  nature  But  that  was  before  her  daugh" 
ter's  betrothal,  which  convinced  her  shortlj 


KUMOR. 


that  whatever  might  be  his  prejudices,  he  was 
persistent  and  passionate  enough.  Yet  he 
did  not  care  even  for  Elizabeth's  playing,  and 
he  tried  not  to  yawn,  and  tried  hard  to  listen, 
when  she  sang  great  foreign  scenas.  He 
liked  her  simplest  ballads  best,  still  preferred 
the  kind  accents  of  her  silver  speech  to  her 
most  golden  singing. 

"Will  you  stay  here  and  play,  while  I 
speak  to  your  mother  —  and  will  you  let  me 
speak  afterwards  to  yoic  ?  " 

" Do  not  listen,  lady,  to  anything  she  says 
about  me  —  she  tells  untruths  ;  that  are 
truths  to  her,  however,  for  she  believes  them. 
About  herself  she  can  talk  —  there  is  little 
in  her  history  ;  and  still  less,  alas !  in  mine." 

Then  Lady  Delucy  took  the  woman  to  the 
room  where  she  had  talked  to  Geraldine. 
Directly  they  were  shut  in,  the  woman  began, 
as  the  lady  expected,  to  cry  and  complain. 
"  It  was  so  sad,  so  trying,"  she  said,  "  to 
have  a  child  who  was  not  like  other  children 

—  who  cannot  work  regularly  to  gain  an 
honest  living  —  cannot  settle  into  regular 
habits,  and  marry  happily  in  his  own  coun- 
try. If  he  had  been  quite  an  idiot,  he  would 
always  have  been  a  baby  to  her,  and  she 
should  not  have  suffered  half  so  much  as 
now  she  did.  He  was  always  making  ene- 
mies, and  quarrelling  with  his  friends  ;  and 
now,  after  throwing  away  such  fine  chances 
in  Germany,  to  come  to  England  and  dis- 
grace himself  the  first  thing,  by  placing  him- 
self on  an  equality  with  a  high  lady,  —  a 
great  lady,  —  and  she,  his  poor  mother, 
obliged  to  seem  to  encourage  him,  because 
she  dare  not  cross  him,  lest,  as  the  doctor  said, 
those  convulsions  might  come  back,  which 
he  had  when  he  was  a  child." 

"  You  are  quite  right,"  said  the  lady,  di- 
rectly she  could  get  in  a  Avord  —  "  to  take 
care  of  him,  and  it  would  be  very  wrong  to 
cross  him.  I  will  tell  you  why :  your  son  is 
not  my  equal  in  music,  he  is  my  superior. 
And  once  I  was  not  the  lady  of  this  house 

—  I  was  an  actress  on  the  English  stage, 
until  my  noble  husband  married  me."  She 
meant  to  mend  matters,  but  she  had  made 
them  worse :  the  woman  shi'ank  from  her 
with  awe  and  terror  in  her  face ;  she  was 
evidently  one  of  those  —  fewer  abroad  than 
at  home,  but  too  many  any  where,  who  have 
been  bred  in  superstitious  horror  of  actors 
and  actresses,  a  superstition  perhaps  the  last 
remaining  in  full  strength,  of  the  fine  antique 
stock,  of  whom  witches  are  the  maternal  an- 
cestors. But  the  lady's  sweet  smile  and 
countenance  which  glowed  with  goodness 
carried  a  countercharm  to  the  artificial 
dread. 

"  Well !  so  kind  and  great  a  lady  had  been 
in  so  humble  a  position,  that  it  was  wonder- 
ful she  had  no  pride  —  could  excuse  her 
son's  behavior." 

"  But  your  son  is  a  good  son  to  you,  is  he 
not  ?  "  the  lady  asked. 

"  He  certainly  never  told  lies,  and  he  ate 


very  little  and  drank  no  beer,  and  was  not 
gay  ;  he  hated  all  anmsements.  But  so  wild, 
so  irregular,  so  rude  to  every  body,  particu- 
larly Ills  betters." 

"  Was  his  father  a  musician  ?  "  asked  Lady 
Delucy. 

"  Oh  no,  a  shoemaker,  but  a  very  good 
one,  with  a  fine  business.  Herman  would 
never  learn  it,  nor  any  thing.  I  am  now 
sorry  we  sent  him  to  school,  for  then  he 
could  not  have  taken  up  the  whims  he  did 
about  learning.  Thou,  another  vexation  hap- 
pened. He  was  so  clever  that  he  went  be- 
yond all  the  scholars.  His  father  would 
have  sent  him  to  college,  and  he  might  have 
been  a  Professor,  but  he  said,  '  No,  I  know 
as  much  as  I  want  of  those  things.  I  will 
read  for  myself.'  He  spent  his  mornings  in 
a  great  library,  and  Ave  thought  perhaps  he 
Avas  writing  a  book,  that  might  be  a  good 
thing,  to  have  his  books  at  Leipsic  fair.  But 
one  day  I  found  his  papers  ,  they  Avere  not 
book  papers,  but  music,  pages  on  pages  of  it. 
And  as  he  Avas  out,  I  burned  them,  because 
I  thought  it  Avould  force  him  to  take  up  Avith 
some  serious  pursuit.  For  all  this  time  he 
Avas  living  on  our  hands.  When  he  came 
home  " 

"  Oh,"  said  the  lady,  "  was  he  very  much 
vexed  indeed  ?  " 

"  No,  and  that  Avas  odd,  he  took  it  so  easily 
that  I  thought  he  Avould  never  Avrite  any 
more.  He  did  not  scold,  he  only  sighed  once, 
and  tapped  his  forehead  and  said,  '  Thou 
canst  not  burn  Avhat  is  not  written.'  However, 
soon  he  began,  not  only  to  Avrite  again,  but 
to  play.  He  played  noAv  on  a  fiddle,  Avhich 
he  tried  for  a  week  ;  all  night  long  he  played ; 
at  the  end  of  the  Aveek  he  got  a  horn,  then  a 
flute  ;  all  sorts  of  instruments.  Tliere  might 
have  been  hope  if  he  Avould  have  kept  to 
one,  but  he  never  settled  to  any.  And  he 
Avas  so  idle,  that  he  Avould  only  practise." 

The  lady  smiled. 

"But  hoAV  did  he  contrive  to  play  the 
organ,  for  that  is  Avonderful  in  him,  and  even 
you  must  be  proud  of  him  there." 

"  No,  lady,  I  do  not  understand  music,  nor 
can  I  hear  much  in  it.  I  used  to  love  our 
solemn,  holy  hymns  at  Rosenthal." 

"  What,  then,  is  your  religion  ?  "  asked  the 
lady. 

"  I  am  a  Moravian,  and  the  Countess  Von 
Welt  brought  me  Avith  her,  Avhen  she  married, 
as  her  maid,  because  I  Avorked  so  Avell.  I 
embroidered  all  her  Avedding  dresses  ;  and 
oh !  to  see  my  husband's  shroud  and  Avind- 
ing-sheet  —  they  Avere  most  beautiful,  so 
fine,  every  body  came  to  see  them." 

A  sudden  thought  struck  the  lady. 
"  What  was  your  name  before  your  mar- 
riage ?  "  she  inquired. 

"  Rachael  von  David ;  my  father  lived  at 
Rosenthal,  and  was  a  tailor.  My  mother 
was  a  Moravian,  she  too  worked  well." 

"  A  Moravian,"  murmured  Lady  Delucy, 
"  The  old  heritage,  the  old  brand  of  merit, 


26 


RUMOR. 


only  naif  hidden  under  the  parti-colored 
rags  of  naturalization." 

"  What  did  you  say,  madam  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  nothing  ;  but  your  son,  how 
did  he  get  to  the  organ  ?  " 

"  He  asked  his  father  for  six  lessons,  only 
six.  He  learned  of  the  organist  at  the 
Church.  After  one  lesson  he  came  home 
with  a  black  bruise  on  his  head  ;  when  his 
master  began  to  play  to  him,  he  had  actually 
pushed  him  off  the  stool ;  then  naturally 
enough  his  master  was  in  a  passion,  and  hit 
his  head  with  the  corner  of  the  big  choral 
book.  Herman  would  learn  of  him  no 
more ;  nothing  suited  him  but  that  he  would 
learn  of  Herr  Schenk  at  the  Cathedral. 
That  was  so  dear  his  father  refused  him  first. 
But  it  was  not  dear  in  the  end,  for  Herr  Schenk 
took  a  fancy  to  him  and  gave  him  twenty- 
four  lessons  for  nothing.  Then  came  the 
worst  part  of  his  ingratitude  to  God  and 
man.  For  though  I  should  have  preferred 
him  to  be  any  thing  else,  yet  it  would  have 
been  very  respectable  if  he  had  got  a  place 
as  organist  —  in  a  Church,  I  mean,  of 
course.  Herr  Schenk  promised  to  give  him 
a  letter,  a  certificate,  and  one  besides  to  tell 
that  he  could  teach.  At  first  he  got  on  so 
well  that  he  had  eight  pupils,  and  he  played 
duets  sometimes  with  Herr  Schenk,  which 
made  crowds  come  to  the  Cathedral  to  hear. 
At  last,  oh  Lady,  my  old  mistress,  the 
Countess  von  Welt,  sent  for  him,  for  my  son 
to  teach  her  daughter,  the  young  Countess. 
How  glad  I  was  !  I  teas  proud  then.  Oh 
how  I  talked  to  him  and  besought  him  to  be- 
have well,  and  I  made  him  most  beautiful 
shirts,  and  brushed  his  clothes  ;  he  looked 
like  a  gentleman.  For  a  month  or  two  he 
went  on  well,  except  that  he  always  crumpled 
his  wristbands  by  tucking  them  half  way  up 
his  arms,  —  the  shirts  were  never  fit  to  put 
on  twice.  But  then  he  did  a  most  .dreadful 
and  grievous  thing,  which  spoiled  all  his  for- 
tune, and  then  troubles  came  together  as 
close  as  swallows  in  a  fiight." 

"  What  was  the  dreadful  thing  though  ?  " 
asked  the  lady  frowning,  really  impatient. 

"  He  actually  had  the  audacity  to  make 
love,  at  least  not  exactly  to  make  love,  but 
to  show  he  felt  it,  to  the  Countess  Clara,  my 
old  mistress's  own  child,  his  own  pupil.  The 
Countess  sent  him  away,  and  would  never 
see  me,  nor  him,  any  more.  All  the  people, 
who  let  him  teach  their  children,  took  them 
from  under  his  instruction  too  :  he  lost  all, 
—  and  when  the  Countess  von  Welt  sent 
him  his  money,  he  sent  it  all  back  to  her. 
Then,  all  at  once,  his  father  died ;  he  had 
been  poorly,  and  I  had  not  told  him  of  Her- 
man's misbehavior,  because  I  thought  it 
would  make  him  worse.  I  was  glad  I  had 
not  told  him ;  he  was  spared  that  unhappi- 
ness.  Then,  after  his  death  there  was  much 
less  money  in  the  business  than  I  thought  ; 
he  had  always  looked  for  his  son  to  help 
him.     And  Herman  made  me  sell  the  stock : 


it  fetched  little,  for  the  people  were  all  run- 
ning to  a  new  shop  opposite  the  market, 
where  a  French-woman  sold  shoes  and  boots 
from  Paris.  —  Well,  Herman  said  to  me, 
'  this  money  will  keep  you  for  a  year,  anc' 
then  you  will  see  what  I  shall  do.  I  am 
going  away  all  day,  every  day,  but  I  shall 
come  back  at  night  and  sleep.'  In  case  of 
robbers  or  fire,  just  to  think,  to  leave  me  so ! 
And  he  Avould  not  say  where  he  was  going  : 
certainly  he  came  home  every  night,  but  he 
never  said  a  word,  and  I  of  course  thought 
he  was  working  hard  at  some  trade,  to  sur- 
prise me  with.  At  the  end  of  the  year  he 
told  me  —  that  is,  he  took  me  with  him  to 
Herr  Schenk's,  and,  lady,  that  whole  year  he 
had  been  doing  nothing  but  studying  music. 
'  Why,'  I  said,  speaking  as  mildly  as  I  could, 
'  how  much  more  time  do  you  mean  to  waste 
so?' 

" '  All  my  life,'  said  he.  Then  despair 
seemed  to  fill  my  heart,  and  I  could  say  no 
more,  I  could  only  pray  for  resignation  to 
bear  my  lot." 

"  And  what  next  ?  " 

"  Herr  Schenk  said,  very  politely  I  must 
say,  —  he  is  a  fine  old  gentleman,  —  *  Your 
son  is  going  to  England  and  there  he  will 
make  his  fortune.'  '  Oh,  what  a  long  way,' 
I  said  ;  '  if  we  must  go  any  where  why  not 
nearer  home  ? '  '  Because,  said  Herr  Schenk, 
'  England  is  the  richest  country  in  all  the 
world,  and  I  shall  write  him  a  letter  which 
he  is  to  take  to  a  kind  and  great  lady,  who 
will  introduce  him  to  her  friends  as  she  in- 
troduced me.  She  is  richer  now  than  she 
was  then.  All  the  great  persons  in  England 
like  their  children  to  take  lessons  of  for- 
eigners, especially  Germans,  in  music.  And 
he  can  teach  children  —  yes,  and  grown-up 
children  now." 

Lady  Delucy  thought  of  the  simple  old 
German  who  only  loved  his  pipe  besides  his 
organ,  and  who  led  so  frugal  a  life  that  ht 
could  subsist  entirely,  when  in  London,  upon 
the  handsome  remuneration  she,  his  then 
only  pupil,  made  him  for  his  instructions, 
when,  before  her  marriage,  she  had  wished 
to  make  herself  mistress  of  the  science  of 
music.  And  she  wondered  how  the  being 
she  had  in  the  hall  would  contrive  to  instruct 
children,  especially  the  childi'en  of  the  no- 
bility of  Britain. 

She  would  ask  no  more  questions  about 
him. 

"  You  tell  me  you  work,"  she  observed. 
"Now  you  need  be  under  no  apprehensions 
about  your  son  and  yourself,  for  I  can  get 
you  and  give  you  a  great  deal  of  work. 
Fine  work  is  alniost  as  difficult  to  procure  as 
fine  music.  My  daughter  will  be  married 
some  day,  and  as  she  wiU  go  to  India  with 
her  husband  she  will  want  a  great  many 
more  clothes  than  do  most  young  ladies 
when  they  marry.  You  shall  make  them  all 
—  at  least  as  many  of  them  as  you  like  —  for 
I  know  how  beautiful  is  the  needlework  of 


HUMOR. 


•n 


the  Moravians,  and  that  my  daughter  and 
I  shill  like  yours  very  much  better  than 
w'h;xt  is  (lone  in  England." 

Then  the  lady  finished  in  her  thoughts  :  — 
"  It  will  take  her  mind  off  her  son.  His  pa- 
tience with  her  is  actual  virtue,  but  it  would 
be  heresy  to  call  it  so." 

Soon  she  was  alone  with  the  son. 

He  uas  not  so  agreeable  as  she  had  ex- 
pected —  for,  once  out  of  the  musical  body, 
he  was  as  queer  and  restless  as  ever,  seem- 
ing scarcely  in  a  condition  of  sanity.  In- 
deed, had  she  been  a  fool,  she  might  really 
have  thought  him  mad ;  but  she  was  of  too 
lucid  a  mind  not  to  receive  clearly  the  im- 
pression of  every  other.  She  fixed  her  se- 
rene eyes  on  him,  and  gradually  he  calmed 
beneath  their  influence.  However  he  writhed 
and  fidgeted,  his  eyes  became  fixed  upon  her, 
and  he  now  examined  her  with  all  the  eager- 
ness of  a  youth,  yet  all  the  simplicity  of  a 
child. 

"  She  has  told  .you  about  the  little  Count- 
ess, lady  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  believe  what  she  believes,  hoAV- 
ever ;  do  not  fear." 

"  No,  I  should  think  not.  It  was  the 
Countess  who  made  love  to  me.  It  was  I 
Avho  would  go  no  more  to  teach  her,  after 
she  had  jn-essed  my  hand  and  asked  me  for 
a  lock  of  my  hair.  But  she  was  so  angry 
with  me  for  scolding  her  and  sneering  at 
her,  that  she  told  her  mother  it  was  I  who 
had  been  the  fool.  I  never  knew  love  — 
the  love  of  the  human  lover.  My  bride  is 
found,  however  —  nay,  I  have  married  her. 
And  she  shall  not  be  poor.  She  shall  reign 
a  queen,  and  I  her  king,  will  reign  over  her, 
yet  worship  her  and  be  her  servant." 

"  Now,  I  wish  to  ask  what  are  your  de- 
sif/ns  ?  Without  knowing  them  I  cannot 
help  you,  and  I  wish  to  help  you,  rightly. 
You  know  that,  for  you  read  character."    " 

"  You  ought  to  wish  ;  it  would  be  for  your 
own  advantage,  too,"  he  muttered.  Truly, 
no  respect  of  ])ersons  dwelt  with  him,  saving 
only  one  person  —  himself. 

"I  know,  and  fully  recognize,  the  claims 
of  genius.  But  there  is  an  intellectual  as 
well  as  a  moral  conscience.  The  greater 
the  powers  the  more  conscientiously  they 
must  be  employed  ;  the  more  they  in'omise 
the  more  they  must  produce." 

"  Who,  of  nineteen  years,  ever  knew  what 
I  know  ?  I  am  aged  Avith  knowledge  ;  wis- 
dom turned  my  heart  to  stone  in  the  cradle." 

"  Is  this  vanity  or  the  pride  of  jjower  ?  " 
the  lady  asked  herself.  "  But  what  do  you 
wish  to  do  —  how  to  begin  ?  "  she  added, 
aloud. 

"  Lady,"  —  and  here  his  voice  was  no 
longer  rude,  it  trembled  —  "I  did  not  come 
here  to  make  money,  though  I  came  because 
it  is  so  rich  a  place  ;  and  though  it  is  strange 
enough  that,  practical  nation  as  you  are, 
with  your  golden  tests  for  every  thing,  even 
merit,  you  still  are  the  people  who  give  the 


most  to  fame,  and  the  most  fame  to  the 
famous.  I  want  to  make  my  first  great  fame 
in  England,  not  as  others  have  done,  make 
it  abroad  and  then  bring  it  over,  already 
hackneyed,  to  be  hunted  round  and  round 
in  a  circle,  and  then  turned  out  altogether." 

"  But  here  —  in  this  country-place  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Schenk  gave  me  the  letter  addressed 
here,  because  he  said  it  was  the  time  of  year 
when  fine  ladies  are  in  the  comitry.  As  for 
my  mother,  you  may  think  it  impertinent  I 
brought  her"  too.  But  I  will  never  leave 
her,  and  I  can  earn  enough  to  support  her 
by  spending  an  hour  a  day  in  wriung  trum- 
pery for  the  music-sellers.  I  ought  to  sup- 
port her,  for  I  would  learn  no  trade.  You 
see  what  she  is,  that  she  believes  in  art  as  in 
the  devil  —  in  fact,  not  believing  it  at  all, 
but  frightened  at  it  as  the  superstitious  fear 
ghosts,  not  believing  in  them  either.  But 
she  brought  me  up,  instead  of  strangling  me 
or  starving  me  ;  ugly  as  a  viper  when  I  Avas 
liorn,  she  nourished  me,  she  let  me  live. 
And  for  that  she  shall  be  remembered  Avhen 
I  am  a  Power  upon  the  earth." 

"  Your  Avish  then  is  fame,  fame  earthly  and 
perishable,  after  all." 

"  Fame  !  —  but  many  things  have  fame, 
earthly  things,  fame  earthly ;  things  spiritual, 
a  fame  as  pure." 

"  May  it  be  yours,  and  may  you  deserve  it ; 
above  all,  may  you  not  depend  upon  it  for 
your  soul's  sustenance,  for  if  so,  you  shall 
thirst  again." 

"  Ah,  you  once  had  fixme,  a  Avoman's  fame. 
And  you  could  give  it  up !  What  surer 
proof  that  fame  is  no  more  sufficient  for  a 
Avoman's  Avhole  delight  than  love  is  enough 
for  man's." 

The  lady  smiled.  When  she  had  given  up 
her  dear  pursuit  it  Avas  for  nothing  she  loved 
as  Avell,  nor  had  the  love  she  received  filled 
up  the  chasm  in  her  being  between  her  artist 
and  her  private  life  ;  it  did  but  cover  the 
abyss  Avith  frail  bright  roses,  though  an 
angel  hovered  over  it  —  her  child.  Still, 
nothing  in  her  face,  or  manner,  or  most 
transient  mood,  betrayed  that  to  her  life  the 
vital  principle  of  life's  perfection  Avas  Avant- 
ing.  There  Avas  but  a  sh>;ide  of  graA'ity  at 
Avhich  one  Avondered,  because  she  was  so 
generous,  and  her  means  to  relieve  Avere  so 
large  —  for  to  have  the  j)oicer  to  be  gener- 
ous equal  to  the  Avill,  is  the  most  certain 
brightener,  after  love,  of  a  true-hearted 
Avoman's  fate. 


CHAPTER  Vin. 

Ox  a  bright  May  morning  the  chief  critic 
of  one  of  the  periodicals  that  sustain  the 
glory  of  the  English  press,  Avas  sitting  at  his 
desk  Avith  nothing  particular  to  do,  becausa 


28 


EUMOR. 


nothing  particular  had  been  done.  Innumer- 
,able  letters  lay  on  the  table  directed  to  Tims 
Scrannel,  Esq.  He  had  answered  all  he 
meant  to  answer,  and  left  the  others  out  to 
produce  an  effect,  even  though  his  servant 
only  should  witness  the  effect,  and  have 
cause  to  marvel  at  the  magnitude  of  his 
correspondence. 

Tims  Scrannel  was  no  ordinary  person. 
Sluggish  and  cold  as  crawled  the  current  of 
his  blood,  surcharging  his  temperament  with 
lymph,  yet  his  veins  held  brighter,  quicker 
dro])s,  that  seemed  as  though  with  that  they 
could  not  blend,  any  more  than  wine  with 
oil  when  poured  upon  it.  His  parents'  mar- 
riage of  mislike  had  developed  itself  in  the 
sure  result,  an  offspring  endowed  with  a 
crabbed  contrariety  of  attriljutes.  He  was, 
as  it  were,  possessed  of  twin  spirits,  frater- 
nizing not  in  their  mutual  prison,  —  as  if  to 
realize  the  old  heathen  suspicion  that  two  de- 
mons dwell  with  the  individual  man,  prompt- 
ing him  either  to  good  or  evil.  A  demon  and 
an  angel  ruled  this  nature,  and  if  not  equally, 
it  was  not  strange,  for  the  demon  was  fos- 
tered upon  its  own  food,  the  flesh,  and  the 
senses  were  its  ministering  slaves.  But  as 
for  the  angel,  that  slept  in  the  trances  of  the 
soul,  only  waking  at  strange  moments,  a 
stranger  almost  to  itself. 

All  circumstances  had  conspired  to  make 
this  life  a  convulsion,  rather  than  a  struggle, 
for  this  twin-possessed.  He  was  unloved  by 
a  loveless  mother  —  one  of  those  of  whom 
one  can  but  believe  they  are  here,  on  earth, 
in  a  state  not  only  probational  but  progress- 
ive :  —  a  feminine  monster,  head-woman 
—  that  is,  a  brain  teeming  with  frivolous 
inventions ;  heart-reptile,  whose  still,  chill 
blood  seemed  the  unbound  snow-wreath  of 
maiden  modesty  to  the  simple  nature  it  de- 
luded—  until  round  his  Marm  heart  the  cold 
coils  had  closed  —  too  late,  for  after  mar- 
riage. Thenceforth  his  life  became  a  galvan- 
ized existence ;  his  soul  swooned  into  a 
torpor  which  nothing  but  the  shock  of  death 
could  scatter.  Tims  Scrannel  was  their  only 
child,  begotten  in  disap])ointment,  and  born, 
as  far  as  character  involves  jjersonality,  of  a 
mother,  yet  without  one.  He  Avas  ugly,  and 
his  mother  hated  him,  cast  him  from  her  cold 
oreast ;  he  was  weakly,  and  his  father  cared 
/or  him  tenderly,  until  his  budding  character 
disclosed  the  blight  of  the  maternal  blood. 
He  had  been  christened  —  by  his  mother's 
determination,  which  always  carried  the  day 
by  woman's  majority  of  one  against  him  who, 
if  not  her  master,  is  sure  to  be  her  slave  — 
and  named  a  name  which  no  person  coidd 
wish  to  bear  to  the  grave,  and  have  inscribed 
upon  his  coffin.  But  he  Avas  so  insignifi- 
cantly named  that  he  might  possibly  inherit 
a  property  belonging  to  a  relation  of  his 
mother's,  whose  house  bore  that  name  since 
Barebones  sat.  And  he  changed  his  sur- 
name besides,  that  he  might  actually  inherit 
the  fortune  of  another.     The  first  specula- 


tion failed  entirely,  and  as  for  the  second,  it 
was,  on  reversion  to  him,  so  diminished  by 
extravagance  that  it  was  scarcely  worth  the 
trouble  of  a  claim.  At  twenty-five  Tims 
Scrannel  was  a  disappointed  man.  He  had 
never  been  a  youth,  in  the  young,  ignorant, 
and  dreamful  sense,  reeling  as  with  wine  be- 
neath the  bliss  of  being.  Like  Narcissus,  he 
gazed  on  himself,  and  unlike  Narcissus  fell 
to  hating  the  image  he  beheld  within.  He 
detested  liis  looks,  his  name  and  style,  his 
means — just  sufficient  to  make  the  very 
poor  envy  him  as  rich,  the  rich  to  look  down 
on  him  as  very  poor.  His  ambition  was 
petty,  therefore  perilous,  for  if  he  longed  to 
be  something  it  was  something  he  knew  not 
of,  and  no  winged  impulse  drove  him  to  any 
goal.  From  head  to  foot  cased  in  the  icy 
mail  of  scepticism,  there  yet  boiled  a  spring 
at  his  heart  —  the  fire  of  jealousy  ever  fed 
that  central  heat.  Yet  was  the  brain  sound, 
the  mind  without  a  flaw,  and  there  were 
mines  of  intellectual  resource  ever  in  re- 
serve, and  golden  veins  enriched  by  working 
to  the  uttermost.  And  as  for  the  soul,  there 
in  its  own  home  the  angel  slept,  and  now  and 
then  woke  gently  —  gently  as  Byron's  slept, 
under  the  muse's  magnetic  sway.  The  Avak- 
ing  of  the  angel  gave  a  thrill  of  higher  life 
—  nay,  the  highest  —  to  the  imprisoned  na- 
ture ;  it  distilled  through  all  the  senses.  To 
his  ear,  ever  that  of  the  musical  voluptuary, 
it  brought  the  music  of  the  spheres  ;  to  his 
eye  it  showed  the  green  repose  of  death's 
illimitable  fields,  the  true  Elysian.  In  those 
angelical  moods,  his  taste  Avas  turned  as  fever- 
sick  from  the  luscious  fruits  of  pleasure,  and 
the  taste  spiritual  that  it  typified  yearned  in 
the  thirst  of  its  extremity  for  such  Avater  as 
Avas  promised  to  the  Avoman  frail  and  faithful 
at  the  earthly  Avell.  Then  the  very  arms 
Avearied  of  all  that  man  can  materially  em- 
brace, the  sense  of  touch  AA'as  sublimated 
into  that  spiritual  body  Ave  call  magnetic, 
Avhen  soul  embraces  soul ;  then  the  very 
scent  fainted  from  perception  of  artificial 
essences,  the  green-room  boviquet  and  the 
ball-room  Avreath  ;  but  a  rose  freshly  opened, 
or  a  Avall-flower  Avashed  in  spring  rains,  suf- 
fused the  soul  Avith  soft,  sad  memories,  a 
trouble  of  delight. 

But  the  tAvin-angel,  far  from  making  the 
possessed  one  suffer  less,  added  poignancy 
to  the  contrasting  torment ;  the  demon-twin 
raged  and  tore  him,  in  revenge  for  the  tran- 
sient heli)lessness  in  which  it  had  been 
bound.  And  its  fiendish  strength,  in  alli- 
ance Avith  the  cold  common  sense  of  the 
mind  in  Mammon's  poAver,  excellently  fitted 
him  for  his  profession,  a  jackal  of  that  lion, 
the  press.  He,  Avithout  unmanly  flinching, 
could  pluck  the  literary  Aveakling  from  the 
breast  that  nourished  it,  and  mercifully 
strangle  its  earhest  cries  ;  he  could  cut  the 
gangrene  of  vanity  from  the  self-love  he 
wounded,  Avith  a  hand  that  quivered  not  the 
while  it  tortui'ed.    He  could  also  have  bound 


RUMOR 


29 


ap  the  wounds  which  sensitive  merit  had 
received  from  a  misappreciating  majority; 
he  could  have  directed  conscious  yet  trem- 
bling power,  and  have  taught  the  new- 
fledged  muse  the  flight  of  the  Olympian 
heaven.  He  helped  none  of  these.  He 
could  a])prove,  but  it  was  always  the  prize 
eff'ort  of  mediocrity;  he  could  encourage, 
but  ever  the  mind  mimetic,  he  could  urge  to 
fresh  essays  —  but  it  Avas  then  as  though  he 
urged  tlu3  swan  to  the  shore,  and  the  dove 
to  the  water-waste  where  her  foot  should 
find  no  rest.  He  could  condemn  the  night- 
ingale to  silence,  and  tempt  the  hedge-spar- 
row to  sing. 

But  he  was  a  treasure  to  his  employers, 
those  who  call  sweet  bitter,  and  bitter  sweet 
—  and  taste  them  wrong  too,  after  long 
vitiation  of  the  mental  palate.  It  has  been 
said  that  it  is  easier  to  unmake  than  to 
make,  and  this  certainly  holds  good  of  criti- 
cism. A  book  may  be  demolished  (as  to 
its  popular  and  peculiar  character)  in  half 
an  hour's  light  M-riting,  yet  itself  may  have 
been  labored  at  for  many  months.  Just  as 
a  picture  may  be  despoiled  of  fame  by  being 
hung  in  a  wrong  light,  so  may  a  book  be 
displaced  from  the  niche  its  own  pretensions 
might  htive  gained  for  it,  by  a  false  design 
ascribed,  not  proved.  But  who  looks  for  proof 
in  such  a  case,  in  days  when  time  is  money  ? 

But  Tims  had  funded  his  mental  resources 
so  wisely  that  he  lived  well,  in  the  social 
sense,  by  means  of  a  style  of  writing  no 
more  difficult  nor  exhausting  to  a  shi-ewd 
person  of  superior  education  and  large  liter- 
ary experience,  than  it  is  difficult  for  a  dis- 
pensing chemist  to  compound  drugs.  He 
lived  also  by  himself;  he  was  not  married, 
though  no  longer  young  in  years ;  he  was 
too  great  an  ejncure  to  admire  easily,  and 
too  suspicious  to  select,  even  among  women, 
who  pleased  him.  Then  he  was  so  plain  a 
man,  and  only  a  beautiful  woman  of  a  high 
physical  stamp  and  social  caste  would  have 
repaid  him  for  the  trouble  of  marrying. 
Still,  often  as  the  demon  rent  him  with  its 
teeth,  and  lashed  his  sullen  blood  to  blackest 
fever,  his  angel,  the  Art-loving,  saved  him 
from  the  vortex  of  dissipation,  seeming  to 
hold  above  it  her  still  impending  presence, 
as  the  moon's  white  finger  points  out  the 
sudden  chasm  at  the  traveller's  feet. 

Tims  rose  from  the  writing-table  in  his 
ornate  room,  so  chastely  furnished,  with  its 
small  pyrmaid  of  minute  marble  busts  — 
the  celebrities  of  the  modern  Olympus,  re- 
duced by  the  skill  of  the  first  metropolitan 
modeller  from  master  casts.  Four  pictures 
only  adorned  the  walls,  a  Murillo,  a  Correg- 
gio,  a  Titian,  and  a  Turner.  About  a  thou- 
sand books,  all  bound  in  green  —  all  presents 
from  their  authors,  and  each  with  its  fly- 
leaf an  autograph  —  filled  two  cases  of 
carved  mahogany,  and  the  one  large  window 
faced  a  small  fretted  balustiade,  sparkling 
with  scarlet  geraniums. 


Tims  walked  up  stairs  into  his  dressing- 
room,  a  chamber  so  shaded  and  so  scented 
that  in  it  Adonis  might  have  lain  in  state. 
He  snarled  in  the  ruthlessly-reflecting  mir- 
ror at  his  own  face,  his  brickdust-hued  hair, 
and  eyes  pla'ced  like  those  of  a  Mongol,  — 
at  the  entirely  bare  fact  of  ugliness  attested 
by  every  line  and  wrinkle,  the  angel-gleam 
totally  eclipsed  now  by  the  interposing  demon. 
But  upon  his  hands  Tims  did  not  scowl ;  he 
grimly  grinned ;  they  were  his  jiet  point,  the 
jewels  of  his  personality  —  white,  delicate, 
well-shaped  —  worthy  as  models  of  his  artis- 
tic worship,  and  the  constant  contemplation 
of  them  Avith  which  he  was  wont  to  relieve 
his  mind  in  public,  when  surrounded  by 
handsome  men,  fair  women,  and  beautiful- 
faced  artists,  whom  he  envied  most  of  all. 

Tims  was  dressed  carefully,  yet  carelessly, 
in  a  sere-leaf  colored  coat  and  a  brown 
round-topped  hat,  like  a  wandering  artist. 
He  was  going  to  see  and  be  seen  at  th<^ 
private  view  of  the  Academy  in  Trafalgar- 
square. 

It  was  full  when  he  got  in  —  the  chie*^ 
room  especially  crowded,  and  as  usual  tht 
great  crowd  was  before  one  picture. 

Tims,  of  course,  had  seen  all  the  most  im 
portant  pictures  at  the  artists'  own  houses 
for  they  all  tried,  naturally  enough,  to  con- 
ciliate him.  Strange,  however,  to  say,  the 
crowd  was  in  this  instance  neither  before 
Moonraker's  "  Morning  after  the  Last  Day," 
nor  in  front  of  Leveler's  "  Dream  of  the 
Christ  child,"  nor  wondering,  divided  be- 
tween delight  and  distaste,  at  Romana's 
"  Expiation,  Post  Mortem."  It  consisted 
certainly,  for  the  most  part,  of  men,  and 
they  were  all  worshi])ping  together  at  a 
shrine  which  would  never  lack  votaries, 
though  all  fanes  should  fall  and  temples 
perish,  —  woman's  beauty.  It  was  a  full- 
length  life-sized  portrait,  and  when  Tims 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  lovely  girl-face  he 
looked  to  his  catalogue  and  read  the  name 
to  that  number.  Lady  Geraldine  Albany. 

Tims  hated  all  beautiful  women  the  mo- 
ment they  Avere  married,  but  he  liked  to 
look  at  them,  and  at  their  pictures  if  well 
painted,  could  he  not  see  themselves.  There 
was  every  thing  in  this  portrait  to  entice  his 
scrutniy,  but  he  only  growled  at  it  afar  off 
and  turned  away. 

He  had  been  rusticating  for  six  months, 
and  had  not  heard  all  the  fresh  fashionable 
news,  for  like  many  who  are  enforced  to 
Avrite  for  the  public,  he  was  too  sick  of  such 
writing  to  read  more  than  he  was  obliged. 
Thus,  though  he  immediately  recognized  the 
countenance  of  Geraldine,  he  did  not  imme- 
diately connect  her  name,  Albany,  with  the 
name  of  the  Albany  whose  renown  was  one 
of  the  phenomena  of  the  times  and  a  popular 
proverb. 

When  Tims  had  been  in  Italy  about  ten 
years  before,  he  had  been  courteously  re- 
ceived by  the  Geraldis,  to  whom  he  carried 


30 


RUMOR. 


a  letter  of  introducton  from  a  generous  | 
literary  colleague,  his  superior  in  rank.  He 
had  access  to  the  picture  gallery,  the  deco- 
rated chapel,  and  the  palace-gardens.  AVhile 
wandering  amidst  the  paths  which  were 
strewed  with  the  fallen  myrtle-flowers,  he 
met  the  loveliest  child  he  had  ever  seen, 
none  the  less  lovely  because  it  was  a  girl. 
Upon  this  child  he  ;;ast  a  glance  of  admii-a- 
tion,  met  by  one  of  scorn,  that  piqued  him 
more,  so  that  he  dared  to  address  her; 
whereupon  she  uttered  a  wild  musical  scream 
and  fled  into  the  house.  Finding  she  be- 
longed to  it,  he  thither  followed  her,  and  she 
•was  forced  by  her  grandmother's  stately 
presence  to  acknowledging  his  —  that  is,  she 
courtesied  to  him  with  her  eyes  turned  from 
him.  He  seized  her  hand  and  would  have 
kissed  it,  but  she  could  bear  no  more,  and 
tearing  it  from  him  she  plunged  it  into  a 
case  of  water,  then  rubbed  it  violently  u])oii 
the  damask  table-cover,  shrieking,  at  the 
top  of  her  voice,  "  Wicked,  ugly,  horrible 
man  to  touch  my  hand  ;  the  mark  will  never 
come  out ;  it  will  never  come  clean  again  !  " 
—  and  so  was  borne  ofi"  by  her  nurses,  pour- 
ing execrations  upon  him  until  too  far  oft'  to 
be  heard.  He  never  forgot  her  dislike  of 
him,  nor  her  beauty  either ;  and  here  it 
shone  upon  him  from  the  canvas,  only  ex- 
panded and  perfected  as  the  full  moon- 
drooping  with  its  glory,  from  the  thin,  pearly 
crescent.  And,  as  he  turned  away  from  the 
art-reflex,  there  beamed  upon  him  the  orig- 
inal, the  face  he  recollected,  just  so  perfect 
now.  And  it  whitened  with  the  old  child- 
scom  as  Geraldine  recognized  him,  and  the 
child's  dislike,  none  the  slighter  for  the 
woman's  added  to  it,  quivered  in  an  azure 
lightning  from  her  proud  blue  eyes.  And 
to  brim  up  the  torment  in  full  measure,  the 
daughter  of  the  Geraldi  leaned  on  the  arm 
of  the  Diamid  Albany  as  only  a  wife  could 
lean  on  one  to  whom  her  faith  was  wholly 
given  and  her  love  dedicated. 

Yet  another  than  Tims  might  have  been  too 
much  touched  by  her  looks  this  morning  to 
lecall  any  old  anger  except  as  a  dream.  The 
portrait  "had  not  been  painted  six  months, 
yet  Geraldine  had  altered  since,  strangely, 
pathetically,  most  spiritually  changed,  though 
she  could  not  but  have  been  known  again. 
The  soft  brilliant  coloring  of  her  Anglo- 
Italian  race,  carnation  on  the  lips,  blush- 
bloom  on  the  exquisitely  fair  cheeks,  the 
blood  that  tinged  the  clear  lilac  of  the  veins 
with  rose,  were  in  the  pictm-e,  but  Geral- 
dine's  mortal  face  wore  them  no  longer. 
She  was  pale  to  the  edge  of  ghastliness,  only 
too  young  to  look  so,  as  the  dawn-flush 
softens  the  strong  dazzle  of  the  snow.  Her 
forehead  was  ampler;  a  mournful  shade  from 
the  excessive  dilation  of  the  pupils  darkened 
the  blue  ii-is  of  her  eyes.  After  her  first 
glance  at  Tims,  which  was  one  of  startled 
memory  merely,  she  looked  at  him  —  knew 
aim  no  more  j  she  only  clung  the  closer  to 


her  husband's  side.  Ke  was  talkin? ;  she 
drank  down  his  words  eagerly,  as  the  thirst* 
stricken  in  the  desert  the  drops  of  the  rain- 
shower  ;  and  now  and  then,  when  he  ut- 
tered some  choice  remark,  the  phantom  of  a 
smile  stood  on  her  lips,  the  ghost  of  a  blush 
on  her  chtjek,  and  she  seemed  to  tremble  as 
the  rose  might  tremble  with  the  vibration  of 
the  nightingale's  song. 

When  Albany  caught  sight  of  Tims,  who 
could  not  easily  be  mistaken  for  another  any 
more  than  he  himself  could,  they  greeted. 
Diamid  was  cool  in  his  salute,  because  he 
was  entirely  occupied  with  his  wife  whose 
society  he  had  little  enjoyed  since  they  had 
come  to  town  ;  Tims  was  obsequious,  because 
infuriate.  To  see  the  child  who  had  hated 
him  married  to  the  man  he  hated !  Tims  i 
had  always  hated  Diamid  Albany.  Albany,  ) 
notwithstanding,  did  not  take  the  bread  out 
of  his  mouth,  he  rather  put  bread  into  it,  by 
giving  him  so  much  to  write  about.  But  he 
ever  scorned  to  cater  to  the  critics,  though 
glad,  as  all  sensitive  writers  must  be,  to  be 
praised  when  he  deserved  it.  And  all  Scran- 
nel's  criticisms,  those  with  Avhich  too  he  took 
the  greatest  pains,  Avhich  he  impregnated 
with  his  sagacity  the  most  generously,  were  « 
against  Albany,  who  had  no  reviewer  who 
did  him  so  much  harm,  because  none  other 
of  BO  pregnant  a  mind  and  eloquent  a  style. 
Others  ridiculed  what  they  understood  not, 
darkened  their  counsel  by  words  without 
knowledge,  or  servilely  flattered  the  author's 
personality,  because  incapable  to  discrimi- 
nate between  his  own  merit  and  that  of  his 
books.  But  Scrannel  had  a  brain  all  eyes, 
which  could  penetrate  to  every  motive,  and 
he  knew  the  weakness  of  Albany  to  consist 
in  his  moral  pride,  as  his  strength  lay  in  his 
intellectual  generosity.  When  reprints  ap- 
peared of  his  novels  —  those  works  so  bril- 
liant and  profound,  each  illustrating  some 
one  select  idea,  and  which  had  all  been  pro- 
duced in  a  space  wherein  an  author  less 
creative  and  prodigal  would  but  have  com- 
pleted one,  —  Scrannel  reviewed  them  at 
large,  having  merely  noticed  them  when  first 
they  astonished  the\yorld.  He  accused  the 
writer  of  idleness  with  capacity,  upbraided 
him  with  what  he  had  done,  and"  pronounced 
the  mental  powers  exhausted,  because  they 
had  been  concentrated.  His  poems  and 
dramas,  which  had  been  flung  off  carelessly 
as  the  peacock  casts  its  plumage,  were  no 
longer  produced,  because  the  spring  had 
dried  up.  And  as  for  his  political  character 
—  for  it  was  the  triplicity  of  his  talents  as 
author,  orator,  and  genius  of  affairs,  that 
chiefly  excited  men's' envy,  as  it  compelled 
their  appreciation  —  because  he  had  changed 
his  opinions,  rather  cast  off  from  them  the 
ripened  husks,  retaining  the  new  kernel  — 
because  his  judgment,  through  experience 
attaining  a  loftier  attitude-,  viewed  therefrom 
a  wider  sweep  of  probabilities  —  he  was 
I  damned  as  shifting  and  slippery,  with  those 


EUMOR. 


31 


who  hunt  for  place.  Unfortunately  for  him 
bis  friends  were  less  potent,  far  fewer  also 
than  his  enemies,  as  it  will  ever  be  in  the 
case  of  real  merit,  ■vvhether  modest  or  self- 
asserting,  in  this  day  of  party  and  of  prog- 
ress. And  his  enemies  hated  his  success  — 
not  him,  for  him  they  knew  not.  He  had  a 
fault  as  v/ell  as  a  weakness  however  —  lust 
for  power,  not  as  the  vain  man  yearns,  but 
as  the  proud  spirit  would  bow  the  heavens 
to  attain  ;  and  he  cared  not  for  his  actual 
success,  because,  not  continuous,  he  deemed 
it  not  complete.  In  fact,  the  very  beauty  of 
his  character,  and  that  wherein  he  differed 
from  the  fully  successful,  was  that  in  these 
the  heart  must  be  o/"the  Avorld,  and  he  was 
only  in  it.  Wherein  he  despised  himself, 
therein  was  his  glory ;  what  he  would  have 
grasped  in  the  present,  even  at  the  expense 
of  his  own  future  immortality,  was  precisely 
that  the  deprivation  of  which  made  him 
greater  than  the  great  Thing  he  would  have 
liked  to  be.  But,  after  a  youth  of  unex- 
ampled renown,  it  was  natural  for  a  heart 
still  true  to  nature,  amidst  the  artificialities 
of  the  necessary  mental  condition,  to  fancy 
its  maturity  a  failure,  because  it  contrasted 
with  its  youth  as  decidedly  as  the  brooding 
midsummer,  when  the  birds  have  left  off 
singing,  the  trees  wear  their  intricate  calm 
shade,  and  the  fruits  drop  dead-silontly  on 
the  lush  grass,  differs  from  the  spring 
with  its  million  love-notes,  its  leafage  green- 
ing hour  by  hour,  its  infinite  progressive 
bloom. 

As  for  Geraldine,  she  cared  for  none  of 
these  things  ;  she  lived  in  a  world  of  her 
OAvn,  certainly,  and  one  dangerously  different 
from  the  world  material  under  her  feet  and 
round  her  ;  —  for  he  was  its  sun,  its  atmos- 
phere, alas  !  its  only  heaven. 

And  on  this  day  Geraldine  and  Diamid 
were  alone  together  so  far  as  their  conscious- 
ness was  concerned;  still* another  person 
was  with  them  —  rather,  just  behind  her, 
watching  him  with  suspicious,  brilliant  eyes, 
that  flamed  with  jealousy.  Her  cousin,  the 
poor  and  haughty  boy,  Avho  had  dragged  out 
his  dependent  existence  at  her  grandmother's 
house,  had  been  the  better  off',  if  not  the 
happier,  for  her  marriage.  She  had  sent  for 
him  to  stay  with  her  directly  the  second 
moon  of  marriage  streaked  the  sky.  Geral- 
dine Avas  still  a  child  in  her  indiscriminate 
generosity,  as  when  in  her  baby-days  she 
heaped  her  own  dinner  into  a  beggar's  bas- 
ket, and  forced  her  ear-rings  on  a  wandering 
lazar,  and  gave  her  first  watch  to  one  of  the 
menial  nuns  at  the  neighboring  convent,  to 
help  her  to  be  punctual  alike  in  her  bead- 
tellings  and  her  tioor-scrubbings.  It  would 
have  been  better  for  Geraldi  not  to  have 
seen  her  again,  but  she  sent  for  him  because 
she  thought  it  would  make  him  happier, 
whether  she  knew  it  was  good  for  him  or 
not.  So,  between  his  hatred  for  her  husband 
and  his  love  for  her,  the  fierce  Itahan  faith 


quickened  in  his  brain  to  a  delirium  only 
differing  from  that  of  illness  because  it  was 
under  his  temporary  control. 

"  They  are  rather  diflerent  now,"  he  mut- 
tered, as  the  three  passed  the  picture. 

"  Of  whom  do  you  speak  ?  "  asked  Albany, 
who  heard  the  remark. 

"  Geraldine  and  the  portrait.  She  is  ten 
years  older,  twenty  years  sadder,  and  thii'ty 
years  uglier." 

"  Thank  you  !  "  said  Geraldine,  smiling 
forcedly,  "  and  not  one  year  wiser,  Geraldi?  " 

"  He  knows  not,"  said.  Diamid,  in  his 
lowest  tone.     "  Only  I  know  yet." 

"  They  wiU  all  know  soon,"  whisperer/ 
Geraldine. 

Geraldi  heard  the  whisper,  and  added, 
"  That  indeed  they  will,"  with  still  more  dis- 
dainful irritation  in  his  voice,  darker  anger 
in  his  eye. 

As  he  followed  her  down  stairs  —  for  very 
soon  she  told  her  husband  she  did  not 
admire  any  of  the  pictures,  though  she  did 
not  confess  to  her  real  fatigue  —  they  passed 
another  group.  Lady  Delucy  and  her  daugh- 
ter, with  a  strange-looking  man,  from  whom 
at  first  they  all  shrank  —  then  all  turned  to 
examine  him.  He  faced  this  scrutiny  with 
so  vivid  and  mocking  an  eye,  foldhig  his 
arms,  and  standing  still,  that  they  all  three 
felt  ashamed,  they  knew  not  why ;  even 
Diamid  felt  baffled  in  his  instinct  of  reading 
character  at  a  glance. 

"  We  are  going  up  stairs,  and  you,  I  sup- 
pose, have  been,"  said  Lady  Delucy,  as  they 
met ;  but  it  was  evident  she  was  glad  to  get 
her  companion  away,  for  she  said  to  him  in  a 
tone  of  kind  authority  and  interest,  "  We 
must  go  on  directly,  for  we  have  not  much 
light  to  lose." 

"  'Tis  a  German,  then,"  said  Diamid,  as 
they  moved  on.  ''  Who  can  he  be  ?  She 
has  never  told  me  of  him  —  do  you  know 
Geraldine  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Geraldine,  "  I  never  saw  him 
before  ;  he  does  not  look  a  proper  person  to 
be  with  her,  so  odd,  so  wild,  and  rude.  I 
think  it  must  be  some  madman  who  followed 
her  in,  and  she  does  not  know  how  to  get 
rid  of- him,  and  is  afraid  of  making  him 
angry." 

"  It  is  one  who  follows  her  as  I  follow 
you,-''  said  Geraldi,  "  therefore  perhaps  I  am 
mad." 

It  was  true  that  Geraldine  had  never  seen 
him,  though  she  had  heard  him  behind  the 
curtain  in  the  hall.  And,  to  Lady  Delucy's 
surprise,  though  Geraldine  had  become  ex- 
cessively intimate  with  her,  running  in  and 
out  of  the  castle  every  day  through  the  gar- 
den, yet  lately,  that  is,  the  last  three 
months  of  their  country  sojourn,  she  had 
not  seen  her  at  all.  Nor  had  she  seen  her 
yet  in  town,  for  they  had  all  only  just  come 
up.  But  in  this  moment  of  their  meeting 
she  had  observed  the  change  in  Geraldine's 
face.     She  was  just  going  to  observe  it  to 


32 


RUMOR. 


Elizabeth,  when  Rodomant  began  to  talk, 
and  as  usunl,  when  he  did  so,  she  forgot 
what  she  had  been  going  to  say  herself. 

"After  all,"  he  said,  jamming  his  hat 
down  still  more  over  his  eyes,  '*  it  is  not  so 
very  unusual  in  this  country  for  persons  to 
seek  what  I  seek,  and  which  you  tell  me  I 
pursue  too  earnestly.  Those  persons,  who 
stopped  to  stare  at  me,  I  suppose  saw  in  me 
what  I  saw  in  them;  but  the  difference 
between  us  is,  that  one  of  us  has  gained  it, 
and  wearies  of  it ;  another  will  never  gain  it ; 
and  the  third  —  well,  the  third  will  gain  it, 
and  never  weary." 

"  Yourself  the  third.  You  are  right  about 
Jiim,  the  older  man;  he  is  very  famous,  but 
I  think  you're  mistaken  about  the  other ;  he 
looks  as  if  he  had  some  loAver  purpose  or 
excitement  than  even  the  desire  to  excel." 

"The  desire  to  excel!  that  is  not  it;  the 
desire  that  the  whole  world  shall  confess  to 
the  excellence !  But  I  did  not  mean  the 
boy,  I  meant  the  girl." 

"I  don't  think  she  has  any  ambition  ;  she 
is  entirely  devoted  to  her  husband,  perhaps 
jealously  so." 

"  She  is  half  devoted  to  him,  that  is 
heart-devoted,  but  the  mind  is  devoted  to 
Bomething  else,  drawn  up  like  a  mist  to  the 
sun  —  it  will  descend  to  earth  again  in  tears." 

"  Do  let  us  move  on  again,  or  it  will  be 
quite  too  dark  to  see  Romana's  picture." 


CHAPTER  IX. 

"Is  this  your  picture-gallery?  "  he  ex- 
claimed loudly,  as  they  entered  the  chief  room. 
"  Why,  our  print-shops  are  as  big  them- 
selves ;  and  as  for  the  pictui-es,  I  see  no 
paintings  of  any  thing  except  tall  men  and 
women." 

"  There  are  too  many  portraits  ;  and  this 
is  rather  a  poor  harvest.  Romaua  has  only 
one,  Leveler  only  one,  and  Moonraker  only 
one.  The  last  tMo  artists  are  abroad —  the 
fii-st  has  just  returned  to  England." 

"  Let  us  see  what  is  the  difference.  What 
is  that  picture  with  the  map  of  the  moon  in 
it?" 

"  That  is  not  a  moon ;  it  is  the  skeleton  of 
the  earth  —  Moonraker's  Morning  after  the 
Last  Day." 

Ic  was  a  singular  picture  :  a  black-blue 
sky,  where  pale  comets  sti-eamed  athwart 
cresset  star-wreaths,  sick  lightnings  blent 
with  wild  Aurora  —  chaos  had  returned  to 
the  material  heavens.  And  the  material 
earth,  — whether  in  the  poet's  fancy  bleached 
by  fire-purification,  or  withered  with  the 
age  of  its  last  millenium  —  the  material 
world  looked  like  its  own  ghost,  terrible  in 
its  stark  white  loneliness  —  as  the  lady  had 
called  it,  an  orbed  skeleton. 


"That  is  a  bad,  wicked  picture,"  said 
Rodomant,  not  heeding  Avho  heard  him. 
"  Wandering  away  to  eternal  oblivion  — 
Avhat  does  he  mean  by  that  ?  Confusion  re- 
turned again,  worse  than  the  first,  because 
without  hope.  No  Time  coming,  with  pri- 
mal love  and  bloom  of  passion.  No  balance 
of  bliss,  the  restitution,  the  new  earth  and 
heaven;  if  he  could  not  paint  those,  n  was 
ii-religious  to  paint  this. " 

"  Tliis,  at  least,  is  not  irreligious ;  the 
Dream  of  the  Christ-child." 

"  A  child  like  any  other  child,  and  not  a 
pretty  one  either ;  on  the  contrary,  a  child 
with  an  old  face,  like  mine.  His  head  on  a 
lamb,  and  a  wreath  of  holly  round  his  head 
—  did  holly  grow  in  Palestine  ?  or  snow- 
drops near  Jerusalem?  for  he  is  crushing 
snow-drops  in  his  hand.  A  Hebrew  child, 
of  princely  race,  with  the  features  of  a 
swaddled  German.  Nor  is  the  dream  depicted 
as  a  foreshadow,  it  is  a  literal  portrait,  a 
study  of  an  agony,  an  effigy  of  Nature  in 
extremity,  the  doom  distinct  as  the  scarlet 
thorn-wounds.  And  the  lesson  it  teaches  — 
what  is  that  to  you,  whose  Protestant  law 
forbids  you  to  worship  likenesses  and  images  ? 
The  Catholic  worships  the  symbol  of  what  is 
reality  to  his  faith.  But  how  often  soever 
men  have  piinted  similitudes  of  Man-Gtid, 
this  man  cannot  paint  God  as  man.  The 
artist  is  an  artificer,  the  design  beyond  the 
workman's  hand." 

"  See,  now,  Romana's  '  Expiation.'  You 
know  what  it  means  ?  A  criminal  after 
execution  given  up  to  the  medical  authorities 
to  be  cut  into  pieces  for  the  benefit  of  mortal 
successors.  A  horrible  subject ;  1  wonder 
he  chose  it,  with  his  refinement.  It  is  a 
refinement  of  horror,  certainly,  but  it  is  well 
painted,  and  there  is  in  the  idea  of  a  crimi- 
nal's further  degradation  after  a  degraded 
death,  being  expiatory,  some  kind  of  rude 
pathos." 

"  There  is  much  more,"  cried  Rodomant, 
halting  before  this  picture,  which  literally 
blazed  with  finish;  "there  is  profound 
tragedy  in  the  conception,  and  the  painting 
is  superb.  In  all  our  galleries  there  is 
nothing  half  so  grandly  drawn  and  colored. 
The  marble  of  the  table  is  marble,  the  gas 
above  is  gas,  and  what  it  lights  is  dead  flesh 
and  living  flesh  —  the  two  humanities.— 
Which  is  the  sadder  and  the  most  of  earth  ? 
Not  even  the  half-sheeted,  livid  body,  hidp- 
less  now  to  conceive  or  commit  evil,  with  the 
calm  that  death  refuses  not  to  one,  even  the 
most  evil,  creeping  back  over  the  dead  face, 
and  stealing  from  it  the  last  convulsion  that 
is  life's,  not  death's.  The  damp  still  hang- 
ing to  the  hair,  you  could  catch  it  on  youi 
finger ;  those  tears  of  terror,  do  they  not 
seem  repentant?  The  purple  ropemark,  is 
it  not  a  brand?  Does  not  the  branded  go 
free  afterwards  ?  Yes,  less  sad,  less  earthly 
is  the  dead  flesh  than  the  living  men.  See 
I  their  triumph.     How  they  gloat  over   theii 


RUMOR. 


33 


treasure  !  How  they  long  like  cannibals  for 
the  division  of  the  same  spoil !  To  them 
the  dead  is  no  more  sacred  than  the  carcass 
of  a  dog,  but  as  much  more  valuable  as  the 
drug  we  call  gold  is  more  precious  than  the 
mud  we  scrape  from  our  shoes.  This  paintt." 
is  a  satirist  and  also  a  master.  He  is  a 
master  because  he  is  imitated.  See  all  over 
the  walls,  blots  and  patches  in  frames,  where 
men  have  tried  to  paint  like  him  and  failed. 
Like  all  founders  of  faiths,  himself  sincere 
and  wise,  his  followers  are  fanatics.  He 
should  have  founded  no  new  faith,  he  should 
have  followed  the  old  one  to  which  Nature 
gives  laws,  as  God  gives  laws  to  Nature. 
Then  should  he  by  this  time  have  reached 
heaven,  the  artist's  heaven  —  Ideal." 

"  This  artist  professes  to  paint  what  is  as 
it  is,  not  as  it  is  seen,  for  he  says  no  two 
men's  eyes  are  alike  nor  see  the  same." 

"The  high  artist  should  aspire  to  paint 
what  is  not  seen  as  it  is,  too.  He  chooses 
subjects  so  human  and  so  sad,  because  sad- 
ness and  humanity  are  every  where.  Do  we 
not  know  them,  see  them,  feel  them  ?  He 
excludes  himself  from  the  heaven  of  art ;  he 
is  an  infidel  —  he  does  not  really  believe  in 
what  he  cannot  see.  Dwells  beauty  on  the 
face  of  the  beloved  ?  How  often  not ;  yet 
always  the  lover  by  faith  perceives  it.  He, 
this  stern  art-realist,  paints  dead  tlesh  and  liv- 
iaig  flesh;  marble,  and  wood,  and  metal;  hard 
earthly  things,  and  cruel,  curious  men.  He 
dares  not  paint  a  sea-maid,  for  he  has  not 
seen  the  sapphire  ooze  from  which  crystal- 
lized her  blue  diamond  scales.  He  dares 
not  paint  an  angel,  for  angels  are  not  clothed 
in  threads  of  cambric,  nor  have  they  their 
plumes  furnished  with  down  from  the  cygnet's 
breast.  See,  too,  lady,  how  he  chooses  to 
paint  red  hair  on  all  heads  alike.  We  call 
red  hair  a  defect.  Well,  some  defects  are 
beauties,  like  the  opal  rainbow,  or  the 
blemish  pearl.  See  how  he  glories  in  red 
hair  !  Let  him  call  the  halt,  blind,  and  lame 
to  a  feast  of  Art." 

It  happened  that  Romana  —  called  actually 
Rufus  Romana  by  the  art-opposition  —  was 
just  behind  liodomant  while  now  he  spoke. 
This  being,  Romana,  fine-featured  and  sen- 
tient, was  excessively  proud,  so  proud,  in- 
leed,  that  the  slight  taint  of  vanity  in  his 
veins  was  imperceptible  in  the  excess  and 
rush  of  the  first  impei'ial  quality.  And  his 
pride  had  kept  him  in  the  other  rooms  while 
kind  friends  and  kinder  enemies  were  re- 
porting to  him,  with  all  sorts  of  exaggera- 
tions, that  a  foreign  artist  was  expatiating 
on  his  picture  in  German.  But  when  some 
one  told  him  that  the  German  said  he  could 
not  paint  an  angel  if  he  would,  his  vanity 
goaded  him  into  the  immediate  vicinity  of  the 
crowd  round  Rodomant,  which  crowd,  curious 
for  a  fresh  excitement,  gave  way  before  him, 
and  so  forced  him  to  go  as  near  as  possible 
to  the  speaker,  lest  the  listeners  should  think 
him  a  coward,  or  incapable  of  self-defence. 


"  Are  you  a  painter  ? "  began  Romana, 
boldly. 

"  I  never  said  so,"  the  other  answered, 
turning  round.  "  But  all  arts  serve  Art. 
As  kings  crown  before  men,  like  brother 
monarchs  artists  should  uncrown  in  presence 
of  each  other.      Yoti  painted  that  pictuie." 

"  How  do  you  know  that  I  did  ?  " 

"  By  the  fire  that  feeds  your  eye  as  you 
look  at  it — a  parent's  pride;  and  by  the 
sorrow  whose  swelling  tears  the  fire  ,>erpet- 
ually  quenches  —  a  parent's  sorrow,  that 
recognizes  in  the  child  its  own  transmitted 
imperfection." 

"I  never  paint,  that  is,  I  never  exhibit, 
a  work  which  is  not  perfect,"  said  Romana, 
haughtily. 

"  But  the  perfect  is  an  abstraction,  except 
as  it  is  developed  in  kind,  even  in  degree. 
A  pebble  is  perfect ;  so  is  a  worm,  a  moth,  a 
flower,  a  rainbow,  a  star,  the  sun.  This  is 
a  very  low,  perhaps  the  lowest  possible 
revelation  in  development,  of  the  perfect. 
When  we  are  hungry  you  give  us  a  stone  for 
bread.  And  did  you  give  us  bread,  we 
should  yearn  for  manna.  Others  can  give 
us  bread  —  any  can  give  us  stones  on  which 
to  break  our  teeth.  But  you  !  Were  you 
born  to  aspire  as  well  as  to  create,  what  nec- 
tar and  ambrosia  could  you  feed  our  souls 
withal  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  I  am  aspirant  rather  than  crea- 
tive. It  is  unfair  to  judge  me  by  one  work, 
and  that  painted  —  well,  in  this  place  it 
would  not  be  well-bred  to  say  for  what  rea 
son.  Will  you  come  to  my  house  and  see 
my  pictures  there  ;  there  are  many,  and  l 
have  more  studies.  And,"  lowering  his 
voice,  "  I  think  I  can  show  you  an  angel 
that  I  have  painted  even." 

Romana  took  out  his  card.  Rodomant 
took  it,  showed  it  to  Lady  Delucy,  as  though 
a  child  should  consult  its  mother,  and  asked, 

"  Shall  I  go  ?     Is  it  worth  M'hile  ?  " 

Now  Romana  would  not  have  borne  that 
I'ude  speech  bravely,  but  for  the  fact  that  he 
was  very  glad  to  see  the  lady  was  connected 
with  his  random  critic.  For  Lady  Delucy 
had  never  been  able  to  endure  his  pictures  ; 
and  as  he  was  getting  on  admirably  in  the 
world,  and  selling  them  before  they  were 
painted,  she  had  never  asked  him  to  her 
house  ;  he  needed  not  that  patronage  — ■ 
which  for  want  of  a  word  more  worthy  we 
are  driven  to  call  the  sympathy  of  art-lovers 
with  those  who  serve  art  for  bread.  He 
would  have  liked  to  know  this  lady,  who 
was  the  fashion,  as  now  and  then  unwoi  Idly 
persons  are.  She  did  not  look  at  him,  how- 
ever, but  only  said  to  her  companion,  — 

"You  know  best,  and  must  do  as  you 
please  ;  I  never  advise  you." 

Had  she  advised  him,  most  probably  he 
would  not  have  gone  ;  as  she  did  not,  he 
went. 

He  lived  in  lodgings  in  town,  just  as  ho 
had  done  in  the  country,  and  found  it  eaiy 


34 


RUMOR. 


enough  to  live,  according  to  the  frugal  hab- 
its of  liis  fii-st  retirepafint.  Exquisite  bal- 
lads, illustrations.-»i!-' social  ephemera,  that 
would  have  done  honor  to  a  laureate, 
and  compositions  for  the  pianoforte,  in 
which  the  million  failed  to  detect  his  actual 
contempt  for  that  instrument,  though  any 
master  must  have  been  amazed  at  their 
audacious  caricature  of  the  mania  for  bra- 
vura—  these  he  poured  forth  in  profusion, 
and  with  equal  facility  disposed  of  l.Lem,  but 
always  with  the  stipulation  that  they  should 
be  published  in  another  name  than  his  —  nor 
indeed  was  his  name  known  yet  as  one  to  be 
known,  nor  breathed  in  any  corner. 

It  was  his  custom,  however,  to  treat 
his  patroness  with  grateful  attention  still, 
shown,  however,  in  his  own  manner.  Did 
she  send  for  him  he  never  went ;  was  always 
engaged,  and  sent  word  so  without  writing ; 
yet  it  was  by  no  means  disagreeable  to  him 
to  see  her,  for  he  continued  to  do  so  every 
other  lay  at  least, — knocking  at  the  door 
now  singly,  now  with  fantastic  imitation  of 
the  longest  and  loudest  coachman's  thunder ; 
and  always  directly  it  was  opened  running 
straight  up  stairs  into  the  lady's  boudoh, 
which  was  only  indeed  a  little  shrine  musical, 
filled  with  tempting  relics  of  the  saint,  and 
the  shapes  harmonious  that  suggest  and  sup- 
ply her  forms  of  worship.  If  the  lady  was 
not  there,  he  would  touch  the  keys  and 
throw  forth  an  invocation  of  ethereal  sounds, 
or  sing  —  for  he  would  sing,  though  he  had 
no  singer's  voice  —  in  wild  and  shrieking 
accents,  whose  eloquence  was  of  passion 
only.  She  seldom  resisted  that  appeal,  but 
if  she  did,  from  pre-occupation  or  necessity, 
he  generally  revenged  himself  by  going 
away,  but  putting  the  piano  out  of  tune 
first.  And  as  no  person  could  put  it  in  tune 
again  except  him  only,  after  he  had  put  it 
out,  she  was  obliged  to  wait  till  he  chose  to 
come  and  do  so.  If,  however,  she  was  in 
the  room,  he  all  the  same  opened  the  door 
(knocking  first,  but  never  waiting  for  her  to 
say  "  Come  in '')  and  marched  to  the  piano, 
only  nodding  to  her  as  he  passed  before  he 
began  to  play.  And  whether  he  despised 
that  instrument  or  not,  he  certainly  pro- 
duced from  it  his  ideas  for  her  especial 
benefit. 

The  night  after  he  had  gone  with  Romana, 
he  came  as  usual,  but  not  as  usual  —  went 
and  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  instead 
of  sitting  down  to  play.  "  I  like  him,"  he 
began,  "  but  not  his  pictures  —  they  are  all 
alike." 

"  Romana's  ?  I  have  not  seen  them  ;  but 
I  should  think  they  were.  I  mean,  1  have 
not  seen  those  he  has  at  home." 

They  are  all  sold  —  he  sells  them  ten 
deep.  There  is  the  golden  calf — a  real 
golden  calf ;  there  is  the  fiery  serpent  —  a 
real  fieiy  serpent  —  fiery-eyed,  and  venom- 
spitting  ;  there  is  Portia,  and  the  leaden 
box  is  a  leaden  box  —  the  portrait  in  it  is  a 


real  portrait  —  of  course  she  has  red  hair 
there  is  a  real  Cinderella  —  she  is  ugly  as  a 
real  cinder-grub  —  she  has  red  hair,  too 
there  is  a  lady  called  Geraldine  in  a  wood 
—  the  bark  of  the  trees  real  bark  —  the 
leaves  have  veins  and  edges  as  if  cut  with 
scissors  ;  the  lady  has  naked  feet  —  real 
naked  feet,  on  real  grass,  of  which  you 
count  the  blades  and  the  beads  of  dew. 
j  Her  jewels  are  real  jewels  —  they  are  cut, 
;  and  they  sparkle.  Her  hair,  of  course,  red, 
\  but  there  is  i-ather  more  than  the  usual 
i  quantity  of  blue  mould  which  he  puts  fo: 
'  mist,  because  it  is  moonlight.  The  only 
thing  in  that  picture  that  is  not  real,  is  the 
j  moonlight.  Well,  I  stood  and  looked  —  I 
!  did  not  say  any  thing.  Presently,  he  uncov- 
'  ered  a  portrait.  '  There  is  the  angel  of  the 
sun,'  he  said.  It  was  simply  a  picture  of  a 
very  fair  woman,  with  brighter  red  hair  than 
the  rest. 

" '  Why,'  I  said,  '  that  is  a  woman.  If 
your  angels  are  women,  no  wonder  you  are 
so  long  in  getting  to  the  sun  —  you  must 
have  been  born  in  a  mine.'  Then  the  door 
opened,  and  the  little  sun-angel  appeared. 
She  is  a  great  deal  prettier  than  the  picture, 
and  was  very  polite.  He  is  very  fond  of 
money.  He  said,  '  You  may  make  but  one 
success  if  you  are  poor  ;  but'when  you  grow 
rich,  you  may  be  famous  as  often  as  you 
please,  and  as  unworthily.'  I  said  I  heard 
it  was  in  this  country  so.  '  In  every  coun- 
try,' he  said.  '  Till  Cagliostro  was  rich  he 
I  was  called  a  charlatan,  afterwards  he  was  a 
true  magician  ;  before  Turner  grew  rich  he 
was  cold-shouldered,  people  squinted  behind 
them  at  his  pictures  —  afterwards  he  might 
paint  what  he  pleased,  as  badly  as  possilile 
or  as  well,  it  was  all  the  same  to  the  world.' 
"  Then  he  tried  to  find  out  who  I  was  —  I 
believe  he  thought  I  was  rich,  because  my 
coat  was  gone  shabby." 
"  You  did  not  tell  him  ?  " 
"  Xo,  nor  how  nor  where  I  live.  Not  be- 
cause I  agree  with  him  about  money  ;  but 
that  the  purple  raiment  I  am  weaving  for 
myself  to  wear  forever,  may  never  be  con- 
temptuously contrasted  with  the  rags  I  spin 
from  the  refuse  of  my  brain,  to  cover  myself 
with  now.  Besides,  we  don't  tell  when  we 
sell  our  old  clothes  to  the  Jews.  Some  fin? 
ladies  sell  their  dresses  and  trhikets  —  d: 
you  ever,  lady  ?  " 

"No,"  she  said,  laughing;  "who  told  you 
that  slander  ?  " 

"  My  mother,  who  likes  fine  clothes  her- 
self, and  therefore  mortifies  her  flesh  by 
wearing  sad  colors.  The  woman  of  the 
house  told  her.  I  lock  my  door  that  they 
may  not  pester  me  about  baked  meats  and 
porter.  They  sit  in  the  kitchen,  listen  to 
the  mice  scratching  — '  gnawing  coffin  nails,' 
they  call  it  —  and  eat  toasted  cheese." 

"  But  you  did  not  tell  me  how  you  parted 
from  your  new  acquaintance  —  do  you  mean 
to  see  him  again  .'*  " 


RUMOR. 


35 


"No,  not  if  I  can  help  it,  in  this  world, 
and  I  don't  think  we  ■  shall  be  near  each 
other  in  heaven.  If  I  do  ever  see  him 
again,  it  will  be  in  the  days  of  my  kingship, 
and  he  will  bend  to  me,  and  I  shall  hold  out 
the  sceptre,  and  he  will  touch  it.  And 
what  he  asks  I  shall  bestow." 

"You  riddle,"  cried  the  lady,  laughing, 
"  and  as  it  is  not  often  you  take  the  trouble 
to  talk  to  me,  and  to-morrow  I  dare  say  will 
be  si)eechless  again,  pray  explain  what  you 
mean  to-night." 

"  Well,  I  told  him,  '  Some  day  you  will 
become  a  scene-painter,  which  is  exactly 
what  you  are  fit  for.'  He  was  in  such  a 
passion,  that  he  got  up  and  ran  about, 
would,  I  believe,  have  rung  the  bell,  and 
ordered  my  carriage,  as  I  am  told  the  fine 
people  do  liere,  even  if  you  go  to  their  houses 
in  a  wheelbarrow.  But  I  saved  him  the 
trouble,  for  I  got  up  and  went  directly." 

"  Quarrelling  again !  you  quarrel  with 
every  one  —  and  if  you  do,  what  will  become 
of  you  in  this  place  ?  " 

"  You  will  see.  Do  I  ever  quarrel  with 
you,  lady  ?  " 

"  What  did  you  mean,"  asked  Geraldine 
of  her  cousm  that  evening,  when  they  were 
alone,  "  by  saying  that  they  would  all  know 
soon  ?     What  will  they  know  ?  " 

"  That  you  are  miseral:)le,"  said  Geraldi  — 
"  miserable  with  him,  and  through  him. 
You  are  pale  with  the  death  of  hope  —  de- 
spair. An  icicle  wastes  not  in  the  sun  more 
rapidly  than  you  do.  You  are  strangling 
your  wretchedness,  but  it  is  stronger  than 
you,  and  its  cold  embrace  Avill  stop  your 
heart  at  Inst." 

"  Geraldi !  "  she  answered,  as  soon  as  she 
could  speak  for  the -wild  trembling  Avhich 
seized  her  while  he  spoke,  "you  are  cruel  — 
cruel,  and  untrue.  If  I  am  pale,  it  is  be- 
cause I  am  sick  with  happiness.  Brides  are 
always  pale,  even  in  Italy,  my  Geraldi  — 
pale  as  the  myrtle-blossoms,  even  when  their 
lips  are  red  —  red  as  the  coral  myrtle-buds. 
Are  my  lips  not  red,  Geraldi  ?  " 

Those  lips,  with  their  burning  bloom  — 
had  hectic  really  dropped  on  them  the  first 
spark  of  its  fire  inextinguishable,  which  goes 
not  out  till  the  time,  oe  it  long  or  short, 
that  it  has  consumed  the  last  ashes  of  the 
sacrifice  to  life  eternal,  of  the  mortal  life  ? 

"  Red  ?  yes,  red  as  the  fatal  anemone  — 
red  as  the  unripe  grape  when  the  sun  shines 
through  the  clusters."  Geraldi  leaped  for- 
ward, held  her  in  his  arms,  pressed  his  lips 
to  hers,  scarcely  cooler  than  they,  strained 
her  to  his  heart,  tiU  the  blood,  driven  suttb- 
catingly  upwards,  filled  her  brows  with 
throbbing  anguish.  Yet  she  felt  nothing  in 
his  embrace  but  its  affection  ;  the  passion 
80  much  less  pure,  the  love  so  much  weaker 
than  hers  for  Diamid,  became  indistinguish 
able  from  them  as  flame  in  flame.  And  her 
pity  filled  her  with  aflection  too. 


"  Oh,  Geraldiwe,  why  are  you  so  sad  ? 
You  never  laugi^^  you  scarcely  evel 
smile."  ^^^ 

"  Fie,  Geraldi  —  in  Italy  it  is  not  polite 
to  laugh  ;  we  never  did." 

"  They  laugh  enough  in  England  —  this 
cold  hell  whose  devils  are  white,  not  black 
—  to  the  whitest  of  which  you  have  sold 
yourself." 

"  Geraldi !  "  She  drew  herself  from  him, 
but  only  that  she  might  cover  her  face  with 
her  hands,  and  weep  into  them. 

"  You  do  not  know  hira  ?  I  can  forgive 
you.  But  he  is  so  dear  to  me,  that  I  cannot 
bear  hard  words  about  him  —  above  all  from 
you,  Geraldi ;  you  must  not  speak  so.  You 
must  be  wicked  if  you  think  it ;  but  you  do 
not  —  no  one  could.  He  is  pure  as  Heaven, 
and  I  adore  him." 

"  Oh,  Geraldine !  and  you  would  not 
adore  the  Mother  of  Heaven  —  you  said  it 
was  taking  too  much  from  God,  A  love  so 
blasphemous  can  be  for  nothing  pure." 

She  wept  still ;  silver  tears  rolled  down 
on  her  dress,  between  her  fingers,  now  so 
pale  and  thin ;  either  the  founts  of  grief  or 
gratitude  were  broken  up,  for  not  once  she 
sobbed,  she  cried  too  tenderly. 

"  You  must  be  miserable,  oh,  my  cousin  \\ 
for  you  weep  while  he  is  away  :  when  he 
comes,  you  never  weep.  It  must  be  pride 
that  dries  your  eyes  when  he  is  near.  It 
must  be  pride  that  makes  you  hide  your 
grief  from  poor  Geraldi,  because  you  knew 
how  I  loved  you,  and  that  had  I  not  been 
poor  Geraldi,  I  would  have  married  you." 

"  Never  !  never !  never  !  though  I  know 
not  why.  And  how  do  you  know  I  never 
cry  before  him  ?  I  never  cry  before  you 
when  he  is  near  —  it  is  rather  so!" 

"  Oh,  cruel !  cruel !  And  false  — just  as 
it  is  false  to  say  I  should  not  have  mai'ried 
you  —  for  I  wotdd." 

"  Oh,  Geraldi !  how  little  you  know  of 
love,  if  you  have  never  wept  for  gladness." 

"  But  why  do  you  sit  alone  so  much,  and 
hours  and  hours  togetlier  lock  your  door  ? 
I  have  come  there,  and  I  know  it.  I  have 
tried  to  turn  the  handle,  for  I  thought  you 
were  in  a  swoon,  and  you  never  heard  me. 
You  don't  go  out  with  him  every  time  Avhen 
you  might,  to  hear  him,  to  be  seen  with 
him.  And  when  he  is  out,  and  cannot 
want  you,  you  stay  away  from  poor  Geraldi, 
though  you  know  I  live  on  seeing  you,  and 
even  endure  his  presence,  for  the  sake  of 
staying  Avith  you." 

"Geraldi — he  is  very  kind  to  you,  very 
generous  and  gentle.  He  speaks  of  you  as 
my  brother,  and  a  treasure  of  mine.  He 
would  show  you  how  to  get  rich,  if  you 
would  only  learn.  You  are  unkind  to  him 
and  to  me  not  to  try  to  love  him." 

Suddenly  she  dried  her  eyes  —  looked  up, 
a  purple  light  streamed  from  under  their 
golden  lashes ;  the  shape  of  her  lips  dis- 
solved into  the  softer  cue  of  a  smile.     She 


36 


EUMOR. 


opened  those  smiling  lips  ;  low,  half-pro- 
nounced words  quivered  between  them,  but 
ooukl  not  at  first  escape ;  again  she  closed 
them,  again  they  parted.  Geraldi's  eager 
ghmce  seemed  to  scare  her  purpose,  for  she 
left  his  side,  and  wandered  to  the  window, 
■with  an  uncertain  step,  like  that  of  the  night- 
wrdker  in  his  sleep.  And  as  persons  in  her 
bodil}'  condition  always  do  the  most  impru- 
dent things,  she  opened  the  window,  though 
it  was  raining,  and  the  rain  swept  full  in 
that  way,  driven  by  a  wild  spring  gale.  As 
the  drops  touched  her  forehead,  and  si)rin- 
kled  her  closed  eyelids,  her  strength  re- 
turned. But  she  remained  with  her  back 
to  Geraldi. 

"  I  will  tell  you  why  I  have  sat  alone,  and 
still  shall  sit  alone  for  some  time.  Diamid 
said  I  had  better  tell  no  stranger,  nor  even  a 
friend.  But  you  are  no  stranger,  and  you 
are  more  than  a  friend  — besides  you  know 
no  one  here.  I  have  been  writing  a  book, 
Geraldi.  It  is  not  finished.  But  Diamid 
Bays  —  no,  I  cannot  tell  you  what  he  says, 
you  must  guess,  it  is  too  favorable  for  me. 
He  is  so  proud,  I  am  so  proud  of  his  pride, 
and  so  weary  of  the  delight  it  has  given  me, 
and  of  waiting  to  see  what  the  Morld  will 
say.  He  says  my  fame  would  crown  his 
life,  would  fulfil  his  whole  desire.  I  won- 
dered he  so  wished  it,  until  he  told  me  what 
tlie  people  say  about  his  marrying  me,  be- 
cause of  papa's  connection,  and"  the  two  for- 
tunes I  am  to  have.  Say,  Geraldi,  are  not 
you  glad  too  ?  " 

"  I  never  saw  or  thought  there  was  much 
good  in  writing  books,  Geraldine.  Of  course 
it  is  a  novel  —  all  women  in  England  write 
novels." 

"  These  are  the  best  and  the  worst  works 
written  in  that  class,  Diamid  says.  Perhaps 
mine  might  be " 

"  The  best :  I  dare  say  it  would.  I  know 
how  splendidly  you  used  to  talk  in  our 
games,  and  that  I  could  never  find  Avords  to 
answer  you.  But  at  the  big  library  now, 
I'rom  which  you  have  your  books,  why  they 
sell  about  three  months  after  they  come  out 
for  about  a  tenth  part  of  the  first  price. 
The  man  left  a  paper  here,  to  say  so,  and 
there  was  a  printed  list,  and  among  the 
names  were  many  of  the  most  celebrated, 
vliich  I  have  even  seen  at  our  grandmother's. 
Then  look  at  the  library  there,  who  ever 
opens  all  those  books,  or  remembers  the  men 
who  wrote  them?  Had  you  married  me, 
your  name  would  have  been  greater  than  the 
names  of  those  Avho  write  books,  for  the 
deeds  of  the  old  Geraldi,  and  the  new  Feri- 
ani,  are  remembered  through  all  Italy." 

"  But  the  past  are  not  myself.  Oh !  to  be 
known,  were  it  only  for  one  splendid  hour, 
to  make  the  world  wonder  at  me,  the  crowds 
turn  pale  Avhen  they  read  my  words,  to  make 
those  who  cannot  understand  me  tremble, 
and  those  who  can,  shiver  too  with  excess  of 
sympathy  !     To  have  it  said  that  young  as  I 


am,  I  have  genius  and  its  sorrows  for  mj 
doom.     I  could  even  bear  to  die." 

"  And  it  is  poison  too,  slow  or  quick,  ac- 
cording to  your  strength  or  weakness.  Then 
besides,  it  is  not  wholly  to  ])lease  him." 

"  It  was  at  first.  When  I  used  to  talk  to 
him,  dream  aloud  to  him  about  all  things 
seen  and  unseen,"  he  said,  — 

"  '  Geraldine,  that  is  all  too  good  for  me 
alone,  the  world  should  hear  it.  But  you 
are  an  idle  southern  child,  and  have  no  de- 
sign nor  persistence ;  you  could  not  write  if 
you  would,  and  are  far  too  proud  and  mod- 
est to  talk  to  the  vulgar  English  as  you  talk 
to  me.' 

"  That  is  true,  I  cannot  talk  before  the 
peo])le  in  society,  they  make  me  ashamed, 
not  because  they  are  above,  but  because  they 
are  so  infinitely  below  me.  And  I  know  all 
the  fashionable  people  think  me  stupid.  I 
have  seen  them  stare  at  my  silence  and  my 
refusals  to  dance.  They  think  me  afraid  of 
them  —  me  !  Why,  it  is  well  they  know  not 
for  them  my  contempt  and  scorn.  But  when 
Diamid  said  I  could  not  write,  I  fired,  my 
blood  danced,  and  my  brain  grew  giddy  with 
the  rushing  past  of  a  thousand  pictures. 
Next  time  I  was  alone  I  took  a  pen ;  I  Avrote  ; 
then  it  was  all  calm,  not  the  unbroken  calm 
of  the  noonday,  but  like  the  nightfall,  still 
blue,  still  calm,  but  filled  with  stars,  my 
ideas  as  countless  and  as  bright." 

"At  least,  Geraldine,  show  me  what  is 
written." 

"  But  you  cannot  read  English  easily." 

"  I  should  in  any  language  be  able  to  read 
and  understand  Avhat  you  wrote." 


CHAPTER    X. 

"  Have  ijon  an  invitation  for  to-night  ?  " 
asked  Tims  Scrannel,  visiting  Romana  in 
his  studio  one  July  morning,  a  disturbance 
the  latter  took  care  eagerly  to  receive  as  an 
honor,  for  fear  of  making  the  former  angry,' 
and  drawing  down  on  his  own  head  the 
stored  thunderbolt  of  critical  revenge. 

"  I  have  an  invitation  to  the  afl'air  at  Bays- 
water,  but  as  I  passed  the  back  of  the  house 
early  this  morning,  I  heard  the  workman's^ 
hammers  going  as  hard  as  ever  —  surely  it^ 
will  not  be  ready." 

"  Well,  as  far  as  that  goes,  such  a  trum- 
pery structure  would  not  take  long  to  run 
up.  They  were  probably  working  at  the 
decorations.  However,  I  dare  say,  whatever 
we  see,  we  shall  hear  little  enough,  for  what 
does  she  know  of  acoustics  ?  " 

"  He  must  know  by  intuition  every  doc- 
trine and  decree  of  the  science  of  sound,  for 
such  an  attempt  to  be  made  feasible  at  all. 
She  would  never  be  made  ridiculous,  nor  let 
another." 


KUMOR. 


37 


" But  what  experience  has  she?  None  of 
the  foreign  stage,  and  what  does  she  know 
of  music  —  nothing,  except  how  to  sing 
what  is  put  hefore  her.  It  is  a  tolerably  big 
bubble  for  a  woman  to  have  blown,  and  will 
make  all  the  more  noise  in  breaking,  because 
a  woman  blew  it." 

"  I  don't  see  how  it  can  be  her  bubble,  it 
is  merely  his.  He  is  rich,  and  she  only 
gives  him  her  su])port  and  patronage." 

"  And  you  believe  that  ?  I  believe  noth- 
ing of  the  kind.  The  speculation  and  the 
risk  are  hers  —  the  other  report  is  only  a 
blind.  No  man  rich  enough  to  put  a  work 
on  the  stage  in  Germany,  and  in  his  senses, 
would  bring  it  to  England  first." 

"  Well,  I  suppose  we  shall  know  soon  — 
but  I  was  surprised  to  find  you  did  not  know 
already  —  that  you  were  at  none  of  the  re- 
hearsals." 

"  I  have  been  away,  busy  at  Paris  about 
Halevy's  last,  and  had  I  been  here,  I  should 
have  refused  if  she  had  sent  for  me." 

"I  understand  that  the  artists  of  the 
band,  and  the  actors,  are  all  agog  about  it, 
and  Morrison,  the  manager  of  the  Regent, 
is  very  angry  at  their  excitement.  Says  she 
has  no  right  to  make  them  ofl'ers  which  entice 
them  from  their  proper  engagements  with 
him ;  which  is  absurd,  for  at  the  very  end  of 
the  season,  when  he  has  filled  his  pockets  as 
full  as  he  will  fill  them,  it  is  unreasonable  to 
expect  they  should  not  be  eager  to  make  as 
much  as  tliey  can,  honestly." 

"  Well,  I  only  hope  we  shall  not  be  suffo- 
cated, for  half  the  world  is  invited,  and  there 
is  little  enough  guarantee  for  security  in  a 
canvas  and  pasteboard  booth,  as  it  will  be. 
However,  no  one  but  myself  will  give  her  an 
article,  and  if  we  are  crushed  I  die  at  my  post. 
Die  you  at  yours  —  take  my  advice  and  stick 
to  your  easel  you  will  be  better  off'  at 
home." 

"  Oh.  I  shall  go,  I  am  curious.  I  like  one 
who  will  dare  every  thing  for  a  great  chance, 
if  it  is  but  to  fail." 

Lady  Delucy,  generous  woman  as  she  was, 
had  never  so  generously  risked  herself,  her 
own  reputation  for  sense  and  judgment,  and 
her  means,  before.  She  felt  the  whole  re- 
sponsibility of  the  position  she  had  taken, 
gj.A  was  willing  to  abide  by  the  conse- 
quences as  only  a  generous  person,  entirely 
hrdt  pendent  of  popular  opinion,  ever  is. 
Still,  so  strong  were  her  fears,  that  her  hopes 
must  have  been  stronger  yet,  for  they  pre- 
dominated in  her  breast.  Never  in  her  girl- 
ish or  married  davs,  so  strong  an  excitement 
filled  her  ;  for  the  first  time  she  felt  the  ut- 
most of  which  she  was  capable. 

From  the  moment  she  had  brought  her 
proi^gc  to  town,  he  had  worked,  she  knew 
not  how  hard,  nor  at  what,  until  he  chose  to 
reveal.  She  had  even  fretted  herself  for 
fear  he  might  be  wasting  his  energies  on  the 
slight,  unenduring  compositions  which  he 
produced    for    self-subsistence  —  she     was 


afraid,  after  all,  that  in  his  great  words  had 
evaporated  the  shadow  of  his  grand  designs. 
Because  he  talked  so  well,  and  played  with 
ease  that  gave  an  air  of  trifling  with  art  to 
his  usual  manner,  she  feared  he  might  per- 
haps do  little  else  —  deceive  himself  uncon- 
sciously, and  her  through  himself.  Still, 
these  doubts  and  suspicions  only  hung  round 
her  impression  of  him  when  she  saw  him 
not ;  the  instant  he  appeared,  his  con  ite- 
nance,  with  its  severe  lines,  its  aspect  of 
power,  and  the  eyes  keen  enough  to  scruti- 
nize even  himself,  as  they  seemed ;  these 
unerring  signs  restored  her  confidence,  and 
the  admiration  which  he  exacted  almost, 
scarcely  could  be  said  to  excite. 

May,  creative,  teeming  May,  had  done 
scarcely  less  amidst  the  fields  and  gardens, 
than  tliis  young  aspirant  in  the  Paradise  of 
Art.  It  seems  in  the  invention  and  execu- 
tion of  some  great  works,  as  though  one  day 
M-ere  as  a  thousand  years ;  moments  are  mul- 
tiplied, hours  lengthened,  days  stretth  into 
the  night  —  there  is  rather  no  night  then. 
Only  its  first  triumph  can  young  genius  so 
secure,  only  the  wooing  of  the  yet  unwedded 
fame  so  speeds  —  devotion  without  weari- 
ness, excitement  without  exhaustion,  passion 
wrthout  pain.  After  that,  through  no  night 
does  the  moon  shine  with  the  sun's  ripening 
strength,  the  light  of  no  day  is  as  the  light 
of  seven :  the  unwedded  has  become  the 
bride  —  the  wife  ;  experience  has  annihilated 
anticipation,  care  mingles  Avith  solicitude, 
the  sublime  suspense  of  the  greatest  hope 
of  life,  is  lost  in  that  hope's  fulfilment. 

It  was  true  that  this  strange  being,  who 
was  as  poor  in  worldly  means  as  any  who 
ever  dared  self-advancement,  had  in  point  of 
fact  borrowed  from  the  lady  who  had  be- 
friended him,  to  such  an  extent  that  only 
extreme  sagacity,  or  its  meeting  extreme  of 
madness,  could  have  empowered  him  to  hope 
he  could  ever  disburden  himself  of  his  obli- 
gation. But  it  was  the  confidence  with  which 
he  had  accepted  her  magnificent  favors,  that 
gave  confidence  to  her  discriminating  mind. 
She  could  not  believe  that  so  proud,  so  lit- 
tle vain  a  person,  would  overrate  his  own 
merits,  so  great  as  she  even  felt  and  ac- 
knowledged them,  nor  utter  false  prophecies 
as  to  his  own  reception  by  the  world.  Still 
she  knew  the  difference  between  worldly 
success,  the  proofs  of  which  are  the  most 
substantial  that  exist,  and  the  success  among 
the  feiv,  which  is  at  best  but  a  phantom  of 
rumor,  sneered  at  by  the  mob  as  phantoms 
are  in  which  they  nevertheless  believe,  and 
as  intangible  and  melancholy  a  companion 
as  another  phantom,  to  the  person  haunted 
by  it. 

Had  the  majority  of  Lady  Delucy's  ac- 
quaintance been  privy  to  the  conversation  in 
which  she  engaged  to  go  greater  lengths 
than  ever  patronage  before  extended,  they 
would  have  given  her  crowning  credit  for 
the    eccentricity,   which    was    the    favorite 


38 


RUMOR. 


charge  against  her  —  they  could  not  in  fact 
have  made  another,  if  they  would. 

Certainly,  she  did  things  rarely  done  in 
her  rank,  yet  so  simply  one  could  not  say 
ehe  did  them  in. defiance  of  it;  as  when  she 
went  alone,  regularly,  and  as  a  matter  of 
course,  not  of  duty,  into  dark  places  of  the 
earth,  where  a  clergyman  would  not  have 
allowed  his  wife  to  go  —  nor  taken  her. 
Tlien  she  sat  up  with  her  own  servants  if 
they  wer€v  sick  and  in  danger ;  she  neither 
left  them  to  the  servants  of  servants,  nor 
sent  them  to  the  hospital.  There  was  none 
most  deeply  disgraced  of  her  own  sex  she 
did  not  humbly  endeavor  to  reclaim  ;  nor 
any  she  despised  among  the  children  of 
humanity,  saving  only  those  who  proudly 
execrate  the  lawless  and  openly  offending, 
quite  unmindful  of  secret  faults  within 
themselves,  too  deeply,  perhaps  too  darkly, 
hidden  for  man  to  perceive  or  suspect. 
However,  her  friends  and  acquaintances 
consoled  themselves  for  their  consciousness 
that  she  was  superior  to  all  the  selfish  con- 
siderations which  swayed  them,  by  the  fact 
of  her  being  not  actually  one  of  themselves. 
It  was  proper  for  her  to  perform  duties  which 
were  not  theirs  ;  what  she  had  once  been  ex- 
cluded her  from  the  circle  unexceptionable, 
which  forms  its  cordon  round  the  patrician's 
centre,  whatever  in  these  days  that  may  be. 
Just  as  the  pedigree  of  the  Arab  race-horse 
is  injured  irreparably  if  he  so  much  as  stands 
upright  in  a  tilled  field,  so  her  former  profes- 
sion distained  her  present  rank,  and  was 
neither  to  be  forgiven  nor  forgotten. 

One  day  Rodomant  had  run  up  to  her  room 
as  usual,  but  not,  as  usual,  empty-handed. 
He  held  in  his  arms  a  great  bundle  of  music, 
closely  written. 

"It  is  done  ! "  he  exclaimed  ardently, 
"  done,  but  all  is  dark.  There  wants  the 
command,  '  Let  there  be  light ! '  and  now  I 
find  I  am  man,  and  no  god,  for  I  cannot  pro- 
nounce the  words." 

"Can  I?"  asked  Lady  Delucy,  who,  aware 
of  his  passion  for  orchestral  composition,  had 
engaged  to  produce,  at  her  own  expense,  in 
her  own  house,  any  M-ork  of  reasonable  length 
for  instruments  alone,  whether  symphony  or 
ci  amber  overture. 

"  It  is  too  great  ;  you  will  be  afraid. 
Bee  all  this  !  "  —  turning  page  after  page 
of  score  instrumental  first,  then  recitative- 
voice. 

"  Why,"  said  Lady  Delucy,  astonished 
even  more  than  afraid,  for  the  supernal 
energy  of  this  young  mind  had  produced 
all  this  in  one  short  month,  "  why,  it  is  an 
opera !  " 

"  Did  you  think  I  would  condescend  to 
any  thing  else  at  Jirst  ?  Would  I  be  known 
as  able  only  to  do  a  part  when  the  whole  is 
in  my  power  ?  If  you  were  not  a  woman  I 
would  play  it  to  you,  while  you  followed  it, 
but  women  cannot  read  score  though  they 
pretend  they  can.     You  would  not  make  out 


translate  —  fast  enough.  Take  then  the 
libretto  and  read  that.  Slowly,  for  there  are 
ideas  there  besides  mine  ;  shadows  rather, 
to  which  I  have  given  souls,  wandering  souls, 
which  I  have  made  to  live  and  die." 

She  took  the  little  black  book  from  his 
hand  and  started. 

"  Count  Alarcos  !  "N^Tiy,  what  made  you 
choose  that  ?  Did  you  read  the  tale 
abroad  ? " 

"  No,  no.  In  whose  hand  does  the  divin- 
ing-rod bend  and  point,  except  in  the  hand 
of  him  who  is  born  with  the  gold-atfinity? 
My  divining  rod  led  me.  I  found  the  book 
here  —  an  English  one.  I  thought  half  an 
hour  after  reading  it,  and  then  it  all  came. 
Since  then  I  only  had  to  write  what  was 
made  ready." 

"  It  is  a  sublime  and  awful  subject,  and 
the  most  perfect  tragedy  I  know.  Tliis  dra- 
matic rendering  is  besides  superb,  for  I  see 
how  literally  the  English  text  is  followed  in 
the  translation.  Wise,  too,  to  have  it  Italian, 
not  German." 

"  It  was  too  slow,  yet  simple,  for  my 
many-colored  tongue.  It  ought  to  have 
been  in  Spanish,  only  nobody  would  listen. 
And  Italian  is  best  for  a  rendering  from 
Spanish." 

"  A  finer  subject  for  musical  illustration 
could  not  be  found.  I  always  wondered  that 
it  did  not  wake  up  the  world  when  published 
as  a  drama." 

"  Because  it  should  be  an  opera  ;  as  I  said, 
it  moves  too  slowly  without  music  ;  it  cannot 
be  developed  without  action,  because  it  is  so 
simple.  It  seemed  waiting  for  the  music,  I 
thought,  as  I  read  it." 

"  1  am  only  afraid  lest  the  subject,  or 
rather  the  moral,  will  be,  that  is,  would 
be " 

"Would  be  what?  —  a  woman  to  want 
words  !  " 

"  Untraceable  by  these  English ;  they  love 
to  be  convinced  even  in  a  play.  The  retri- 
bution is  in  perfect  harmony  with  the  laws 
of  justice,  yet  earthly  justice  is  not  heavenly, 
and  I  fear  its  transcendentalism  might  dis- 
please." 

"  No  fear  of  that,  because  it  is  a  tragedy, 
and  the  retribution  is  not  only  sad  but  hor- 
rible. Any  murder  interests  ;  dramatically 
invested,  it  excites,  because  then  people  fee, 
it  is  not  shocking  of  them  to  feel  an  in'  -.resl;. 
But  murder,  and  the  vengeance,  not  of  mar., 
but  God,  you  cannot  call  transcendent  al ;  it 
is  only  spiritual.  That  was  why  it  required 
embodying  to  be  appreciated.  Yet  how, 
after  all  ?  Before  there  icas  light  how  could 
light  shine  ?  Can  silence  speak  ?  "  and  he 
sighed  deeply  —  groaned  almost  —  then  ex- 
claimed, "  Was  there  not  a  rich  man,  one 
Lord  of  Chandos,  who  gave  our  Handel  a 
thousand  pounds  for  his  passionate  pastoral 
of  '  Acis  and  Galatea '  ?  " 

"I  believe  so,"  said  the  lady.  "But  Han< 
del  was  Handel." 


RUMOR. 


39 


"  And  Rodoraant  is  Rodomant.  Still,  he 
was  my  equal.  That  was  a  man  to  whom  I 
would  have  taken  off  my  hat.  I  know 
none  now,  and  only  one  woman,  besides  my 
mother." 

Here  he  made  a  gesture  towards  the  lady, 
as  though  he  uncovered  his  head.  The  hard 
arrogance  of  his  last  words,  uttered  in  the 
sanest  and  most  tranquil  tones,  redoubled 
that  earnest  wonder  in  her  breast  respecting 
his  real  character.  Could  he  be  what  he 
conceived  himself,  or  was  it  a  Active  claim 
ne  purposely  preferred,  which,  if  disproved, 
must  ruin  him  and  make  her  actually  ridicu- 
lous ? 

"  Women  believe  nothing, '  except  what 
they  should  doubt.  That  is  why  men  make 
them  wretched,  break  their  hearts,  and  so 
on ;  they  believe  whom  they  should  doubt, 
and  doubt  what  they  should  believe.  My 
mother,  who  is  always  preaching,  says  no 
one  can  get  into  heaven  witiiout  faith.  The 
Mohammedans  were  right,  then,  to  keep 
women  out  of  Paradise.  Your  Chandos 
lord  b(?lieved  in  Handel ;  that  was  the  rea- 
son he  grew  to  be  greater  than  a  Chandos 
even  in  this  England,  though  you  do  say 
people  only  care  for  money  here.  I  do  not 
believe  that,  but  I  suspect  that  they  will 
have  the  worth  of  their  money  here, 
when  they  have  paid  it.  Quite  right,  too ; 
they  should  have  it  if  they  paid  me. 
Did  Handel  ask  Chandos  for  a  thousand 
pounds  ?  " 

All  this  time  the  lady  had  been  think- 
ing deeply  and  anxiously.  How  thankful 
would  she  have  been  for  some  one  wiser 
than  herself  to  direct  her.  She  at  last 
said  so. 

"  There  is  one  here  wiser,"  was  his  reply. 

"It  would  cost  much  more  than  a  thou- 
sand pounds  to  produce  an  opera  like  that. 
There  is  not  a  manager  in  London  who 
would  dare  it,  even  if  they  were  not  all  full 
for  the  season,  the  lists  made  out,  and  en- 
gagements signed." 

"  I  would  not  let  them  have  it;  they  would 
spoil  it.  I  must  have  it  all  my  own  way ; 
and  then,  once  heard,  once  known,  they 
would  fight  for  it,  and  spare  no  '  thousand 
pounds'  on  it.  It  would  make  them  rich. 
And  if  you  introduced  it,  lady,  you  would 
Btand  in  higtory  a  fiimous  woman." 

Still  she  meditated,  hesitated ;  she  cov- 
ered her  eyes  with  the  little  black  book  con- 
taining the  words  of  the  libretto. 

"  You  know,"  said  he  impetuously,  half 
indignantly,  turning  to  the  piano,  "  how  I 
despise  this  toy  of  wood,  wire,  and  ivory. 
Yet  hsten  only  to  its  lispings  of  the  great 
strain  of  the  overture." 

Those  lispings  were  distinct  enough  ;  they 
praised  their  parent.  And  the  calm,  strong, 
fiery  temperament,  rushing  into  the  touch, 
interpreted  that  praise. 

At  the  end  he  turned,  a  light  covered  his 
countenance,  not  of  triumph,  but  the  stiller 


radiance  of  self-respect.  She  saw  it  not ;  she 
had  sunk  into  a  seat,  half  swooning  with 
the  sudden  pleasure,  a  passion  which  can 
only  be  felt  by  the  musical ;  sweeter,  how 
sweeter  far  than  that  of  love,  how  far  more 
deeply  satisfied !  The  book  with  which  she 
had  hidden  her  eyes  was  wet  with  tears. 

"Is  it  not  beaut: ful,  exquisitely  beaati- 
ful?"  he  cried,  in  tiunsport.  But  she  only 
murmured,  "  Go  on.' 

"  No,"  cried  he,  "  you  have  heard  enough. 
To  believe  is  to  will,  they  say.  If  you 
believe  not  now  you  never  will  believe,  and 
never  will.  How  can  I  go  on  ?  Have  I  four 
voices,  a  chorus,  a  hundred  hands  ?  The 
greatest  of  sopranos,  the  greatest  of  con- 
traltos, a  master  bass,  and  a  master  tenor,  a 
chorus  without  a  will  of  its  own,  a  band, 
every  individual  of  which,  having  a  will  of 
his  own,  will  bend  to  mine." 

"  And  space,  for  there  is  none  sufficient 
yd  in  my  house  here.  And  scenery  and 
dresses  —  and  such  scenery,  such  dresses! 
And  above  all,  how  shall  we  find  time  ?  " 

"  I  can  create  time.  They  say  time  is 
money  ;  I  would  mine  wei'e." 

"  If  you  can  create  time  then,  the  means 
are  yours." 

But  though  Lady  Delucy  brought  herself 
to  this  decision  she  suffered  sorely  —  not 
from  the  consciousness  that  in  case  of  a  fail- 
ure she  should  have  to  exercise  the  strictest 
personal  economy  for  years,  for  she  neither 
drew  upon  her  purse  devoted  to  general 
alms,  regularly  emptied  and  refilled  each 
year,  nor  upon  the  fortune  she  had  amassed 
on  the  stage,  which  she  devoted  to  her  needy 
brothers  and  sisters  in  art.  It  was  upon  the 
capital  whose  niterest  supplied  her  own 
annual  income  that  she  drew,  and  so  largely 
that  she  did  not  choose  to  tell  her  daughter 
how  much  of  personal  luxury  she  risked. 
For,  she  thought,  when  Elizabeth  goes  to 
India  she  will  never  know  on  how  little  ] 
live  in  England,  or  abroad  where  no  one  wil) 
know  me.  But,  little  as  she  revealed  to 
Elizabeth,  that  young  lady  was  frightened 
quite  as  much  at  the  chance  of  her  mother's 
being  held  in  permanent  contempt  by  the 
world  by  a  "mistake,"  which  the  world 
never  forgives,  as  at  the  chance  of  losing 
some  thousand  pounds,  which  seemed  as 
great  a  one.  However,  Elizabeth  consoled 
herself  at  last  by  reflecting,  "  Mamma  can 
go  with  me  to  India,  then  no  one  will  guess 
any  thing  here ;  or  if  she  does  not  choose 
she  shall  live  at  Northeden,  and  we  will  send 
our  children  over  to  her  to  be  educated." 

Lady  Delucy  not  only  deceived  her  daugh- 
ter as  to  the  extent  of  her  speculation,  but 
she  made  it  appear  to  the  world  as  though 
she  shared  it  equally  with  the  artist,  and 
most  persons,  to  whom  it  mattered  little, 
believed  her.  Not  so  Tims  Scrannel,  who, 
like  some  bad,  shrewd  natures,  understood 
good  unworldly  natures  better  than  such 
understood  each  other.     He  suspected  hei 


40 


BUMOK. 


of  the  entire  risk,  and  hence  his  remark  to 
Homana.  Now  Lady  Delucy  would  have 
thought  it  quite  worth  her  while,  and  would 
have  done  her  utmost  to  conciliate  Tims 
Scrannel,  whom  she  duly  appreciated  as  the 
only  art-critic  in  England.  She  desired  to 
buy  him  over,  dearly  bought  as  he  ever  was  ; 
not,  however,  by  bribe  of  gold,  but  by  ap- 
pealing to  that  enthusiasm  which  none  who 
read  his  matchless  criticisms  could  fail  to 
recognize  and  respect,  how  embittered  soever 
was  their  sympathy  by  the  cold  and  cruel 
cynicism  which  gave  his  brightest  words  so 
sharp  an  edge.  But  Lady  l)elucy  was  not 
permitted  to  '•  buy  him  over  "  by  the  heaven- 
sweet  beguilements,  sweeter  than  earth's 
sii-ens,  which  her  own  soul  confessed  in  the 
music  of  the  new  and  strong  aspirant.  For 
she  wished  to  invite  him  to  the  rehearsals, 
to  make  the  single  exception  to  their  privacy 
in  his  favor.  But  Rodomant  said  "  No,  for  in 
that  case  he  would  write  his  remarks  ages 
before  the  proper  time,  the  revelation ;  be 
cool  enough  to  study  his  expressions,  put 
lies  among  them,  and  the  world  would  be- 
lieve the  review  to  be  written  in  the  heat  of 
enthusiasm  ;  under  my  influence  when  com- 
plete. Till  it  is  complete,  neither  he  nor 
any,  save  you  to  whom  it  belongs  of  right, 
shall  be  able  to  chatter  about  it  or  bear  wit- 
ness to  it  —  false  witness  as  it  then  would  be." 
The  time  was  ripe  —  the  night  fell.  Lady 
Delucy  had  arranged  for  three  special  per- 
formances, to  which  she  had  invited  her 
audience  free.  If  they  foiled  there  could  be 
none  other,  for  who  would  pay  to  hear  if  he 
would  not  come  to  hear  without  paying  ? 
Her  invitation  list  included  every  critic  of 
any  note,  every  artist  and  publisher  of  any 
mark,  all  the  managers,  all  the  amateurs, 
and  a  great  many  fashionable  persons.  Also 
8ome  of  that  class  with  which  the  pit  and 
galleries  are  filled.  It  was  at  the  last  moment 
she  trembled,  lest  her  audience  should  fail 
her,  lest  some  great  and  sudden  S])ite  should 
take  hold  of  her  mob  —  one  of  those  epi- 
.deniic  antipathies  which  sometimes  infect 
a  crowd.  Nothing  of  the  kind  ;  they  were  all 
too  cool,  too  sober  ;  they  expected  too  little. 
They  expected  so  little :  "  It  was  just  like 
Lady  Delucy,"  was  all  they  said ;  and  as  for 
theii  perceptions  of  art,  the  drums  of  their 
ears  had  been  so  seasoned  for  two  months 

{>ast  by  Verdi's  own  at  the  opera,  that  they 
lad  lost  all  sensitiveness,  except  to  an  en- 
tirely new  excitement,  of  the  brain  through 
the  ear  —  not  the  outward  ear  only.  Then, 
besides,  as  clergymen  have  no  religious 
objection  to  going  out  to  dinner  (the 
etiqueite  of  their  profession  not  requiring 
them  to  return  such  entertainments),  so 
there  are  few  persons  who  will  not  conde- 
Bcend  to  be  amused  —  cheated  out  of  a  por- 
tion of  that  time  which  is  said  to  be  so  short, 
but  which  they  find  so  long  —  for  nothing. 

The  night  came,  the  hour  ;    and   hot  as 
va6  the  night,  cloudless  and  breathless,  the 


theatre  was  crowded  before  the  hour.  A 
rich,  deep  clock-chime  struck  eight  times. 
Upon  the  eighth  note's  last  vibration  swelled 
the  first  chord  of  the  overture  —  the  clock 
had  struck  in  the  same  key. 

It  is  said  that  the  marble  model  which  has 
stood  for  ages  as  the  test  of  'deal  feminine 
proportion,  aff"ects  the  beholder  with  a  first 
impression  of  insignificant  and  characterless 
calm  ;  —  that  the  Pyramids  seem  to  dwimlle 
as  they  dawn  upon  the  traveller's  yearning 
gaze  ;  —  that  Niagara's  waters  shrink,  and 
its  thunders  soften,  from  the  gigantic  dreamed 
conception  of  them,  when  no  longer  dreamed 
of,  but  seen  and  heard.  It  is  so  often  with 
the  sublimest  creations  of  the  mind  and 
will ;  rash  and  deficient  efi'ects  in  art  aston- 
ish more  suddenly  than  the  transcendental 
ones  conceived  in  enthusiasm,  but  born  of 
knowledge,  and  nurtured  by  design.  So 
calm  in  the  fulness  of  development  should 
be  a  great  work,  that  it  startles  not  but  sat- 
isfies, so  at  the  brimming  cup  the  lip  is 
athirst  no  more,  and  the  delighting  spirit  is 
at  rest. 

Such  was  the  character  and  tendency  of 
the  overture  —  it  was  listened  to  rather  than 
judged ;  that  it  was  original  was  pardoned, 
because  it  was,  though  eminently  original, 
more  beautiful  than  strange.  And  it  was 
mournful ;  never  was  lost  a  moment  the  re- 
minding key-note  of  the  tragedy  to  come. 
Beauty,  specially  in  art,  seems  more  divine 
when  mated  with  melancholy  than  blent  with 
joy,  as  a  great  art  exponent  acknowledged, 
in  saying  that  the  passions  by  tragedy  are 
purified. 

The  curtain  rose  on  Burgos,  the  superb 
pictorial  city,  its  fulgent  skies  empurpling 
the  "  solemn  towers,"  and  "  groves  of  golden 
pinnacles."  Then  human  interest  began  to 
stir,  human  sympathy  to  breathe ;  from  that 
moment  they  grew,  mightily  sustained.  As 
a  drama  where  poetry  was  wholly  passion 
should,  it  opened  humanly  and  quietly,  with- 
out startling  incident,  saving  only  when 
the  two  courtiers  meeting  in  the  stately 
street,  breathe  to  each  other  in  hurried  dia- 
logue the  story  of  the  mysterious  Siwooning 
of  the  Infanta  that  morning  in  Court,  when 
there  passed  her  the  returned  Alarcos,  lately 
a  proud  alien,  restored  thrice  as  proud  a  cit- 
izen and  noble.  With  this  dialogue,  sud- 
denly blending  the  news  of  Alarcos's  mar- 
riage during  his  exile,  announced  by  the 
page  entering,  closed  the  first  act. 

Then,  in  a  rich  room  of  his  palace,  Alar- 
cos paces,  touching  a  guitar  slung  from  his 
shoulder,  in  accompaniment  to  a  sweet  French 
ballad  sung  by  Florimonde,  his  wife.  She 
sings  proudly,  joyously,  at  first  —  ends 
mournfully,  for  an  unnatural  abstraction 
wraps  Alarcos  as  in  the  first  mists  of  the 
doom  that  shall  hereafter  darken  into  black  - 
ness  ;  feebly,  fitfully  he  strikes  the  strings, 
at  last  drops  the  guitar,  then  in  a  duet  be- 
tween the  wife  and  husband  their  chai-acteri 


RUMOR. 


4\ 


first  reveal  themselves.  Her  tenderness  and 
devotion,  her  unworldliness,  half  feminine, 
half  angelical ;  his  ambition,  which  shall 
crush  all  tenderness,  all  devotion,  with  iron 
heel,  his  worldliness  half  manly,  half  Satanic. 
And  the  results  yet  veiled  are  rendered  still 
more  dimly  prophetic  by  the  delicate  diver- 
sion from  a  too  intense  contemplation  either 
of  the  awful  chief,  or  gentle  martyr  of  the 
plot,  occasioned  by  the  entrance  of  the 
g-aests  Sidonia  and  Leon.  Alarcos  talks 
Ughtly  Avith  Sidonia,  of  indifferent  things, 
aside.  Florimonde,  in  a  thwarting  duet  with 
Leon,  asks  of  the  morning  adventure  at  the 
palace  of  the  King,  of  the  swoon  of  the 
Infanta,  and  its  cause  —  that  unrevealed. 

The  next  scene  sweeps  to  the  central  in- 
terest of  the  tale.  Alarcos  is  alone  in  his 
chamber,  the  orchestra  is  wholly  brought 
\nto  play,  yet  so  subdued  are  all  its  various 
voices,  that  it  seems  to  bind  the  music  and 
the  plot  in  suspense ;  ghosts  of  sound  shiver 
past  the  strained  ears  of  the  audience,  as 
phantoms  melt  before  the  eye  they  momen- 
tarily startle.  The  tones  in  such  mystery 
are  prophetic ;  there  enters  a  veiled  lady, 
who  seems  as  ghostly,  gliding  in  at  those 
elusive  sounds.  But  Alarcos  lifts  the  veil, 
the  suspense  is  rent,  and  the  first  grand  in- 
terview between  these  awful  lovers  is  pre- 
ceded and  accompanied  by  a  tumult  of  angry 
and  voluptuous  harmonies,  contrasting  their 
sweetness  and  their  strength  like  the  two 
conflicting  voices.  The  Solisa  of  the  night 
is  the  first  contralto,  as  the  Alarcos  is  the 
piofoundest  bass  voice  in  Europe.  '  In  each 
the  will  to  sustain  is  equal  to  the  power  to 
produce  ;  an  imperious  necessity  where  the 
scenes  are  so  long,  and  the  passion  of  the 
parts  rests  never,  but  rises  higher  and  higher, 
as  gradually  too  as  a  sea  to  flood  tide,  that  shall 
break  at  last  against  unyiekling  rocks.  The 
length  of  the  two  scenes  where  the  Infanta 
fiist  pours  forth  her  passion  to  Alarcos,  then 
of  the  King  her  father  demanding  the  mar- 
ried Alarcos  for  her  husband,  is  relieved  by 
the  length  of  the  symphonies  which  seem 
themselves  to  speak,  a  cloud  of  spiritual  and 
wordless  witnesses  to  defiant  love,  and  am- 
bition more  defiant  still. 

No  blank  silence  follows  the  first  act,  no 
space  is  left  for  reality  to  enter  and  dissolve 
the  dream  not  yet  dreamed  out.  A  delicate 
and  enchanting  interlude  fills  up  this  space, 
in  which  numberless  guitars  fling  their  low 
tinkle  over  the  surface  of  a  profounder  theme, 
as  foam  into  which  the  deep  waves  sparkle 
and  melt  at  their  edges.  It  grows  more  soft 
and  distant,  prevailing  yet  as  the  curtain 
rises  once  more  upon  the  street ;  the  meeting 
of  Sidonia,  the  late  love-smitten  of  Flori- 
monde, with  the  taunting  Leon  ;  farther  and 
farther  melts  the  distant  music,  and  is  lost  as 
they  begin  their  commune,  so  soon  disturbed 
by  the  entrance  of  Oran  the  Moor,  rushing 
in,  confessing  the  crime  of  murder  for  which 
be  is  pui-sued,  and  entreating  the  protection 


which  Leon  yields  to  him.  As  the  three  re- 
treat again,  the  guitar  tone  chafes  the  air  ■ 
—  this  time  a  solitary  one  —  and  as  the 
scene  shifts,  there  swells  above  it,  yet  with 
it,  an  impassioned  serenade.  You  hear,  but 
see  no  minstrel,  for  the  broad  golden  moon- 
light streams  into  a  room  through  the  un- 
closed and  fluttering  curtains  of  an  open 
window,  and  magically  mingles  with  the 
bright  lamplight,  amidst  which  Alarcos 
stands,  as  though  listening,  with  an  intense 
pallor  on  his  frowning  brow.  His-  sweet  Avife 
enters,  her  arms  full  of  dewy  pomegranate 
and  jasmine  blooms  she  has  been  gathering 
in  her  moonlit  garden.  He  bids  her  listen, 
harslrly,  commandingly.  She  stands  beside 
him,  and  at  the  end  of  the  next  verse  wearily 
admires.  He  tells  her  that  her  beauty  in- 
spired the  songful  importunity  :  her  tortured 
virtue  sobs  its  resisting  plea  —  in  return,  the 
husband  pleads  the  lover's  cause  —  and  leaves 
her. 

Then  Solisa,  alone  in  her  room  too,  save 
for  the  presence  of  a  page,  one  of  those 
royal  toys  called  Menino,  upon  whose  shoul- 
der a  Spanish  princess  may  lean  (though  a 
finger-touch  of  grown  man  laid  on  her  i-ai- 
ment's  hem  will  be  his  death-warrant).  So- 
lisa is  soon  quit  of  his  presence  too,  for  she 
sends  him  to  the  banquet-hall  that  he  may 
watch  the  King's  conduct  to  Alarcos,  seated 
near  him.  Unrolls  before  the  e)'e  the  banrquet- 
hall,  the  gold  and  blue  roof  bedropt  with 
scarlet  stalactites,  the  silver  fountains  seen 
through  purpling  vistas,  the  table  gleaming 
and  tiashing  with  gold-fringed  damask, 
•jewelled  goblet,  crystal  flask ;  the  band  ol 
courtiers  round  with  their  gem-sparred 
dresses,  and  gem-incrusted  sword-hilts. 
There  sits  Alarcos  by  the  King,  his  face 
radiant,  covered  with  unholy  smiles  —  then, 
when  all  the  guests  are  dismissed  save  him 
alone,  it  flames  with  triumph  from  the  dark 
fire  of  his  eyes.  The  King  in  their  com- 
mune, sustained  by  each  with  equal  arro- 
gance, now  first  hints  at  the  possibility  of  a 
marriage  between  Alarcos  and  Solisa  —  at 
the  possibility  of  Florimonde's  death.  On 
this  horror  the  curtain  falls. 

Another  interlude  —  this  time  no  fantastic 
strain  of  faery.  All  the  genius  of  the  com- 
poser rises  to  assert  itself,  all  is  a  Avhile  his 
own.  A  noble  organ  fills  the  air  with  a  vast 
Catholic  voluntary,  solemn  but  not  severe, 
imagination  pouring  forth  in  ])raise  her 
whole  resources,  pure  as  the  unsullied  rain- 
bow every  color  of  tone  is  there ;  and 
then,  when  every  heart  is  filled  with  music, 
and  the  thoughts  born  of  it,  holy  but  still 
impassioned,  voices  both  high  and  deep  in 
holy  chorus  swell  to  meet  it,  it  subsides  to  be 
their  support,  and  more  plaintive  than  ever 
with  prayer,  that  passion  born  of  heaven,  the 
mass  begins. 

The  curtain  rises  before  the  last  entreaty, 
"  Give  us  Peace."  There  stands  the  dim 
Cathedi-al,  dim   for  greatness  —  for  not  all 


42 


RUMOR. 


the  altar's  illumination,  nor  all  the  shining 
tracery  of  the  lighted  chapels,  can  pierce  and 
scatter  those  roof  hung  mists,  that  vaulting 
shade.  It  is  filled  to  its  furthest  corner  with 
kneeling  figures  ;  at  the  altar  the  prior  and 
his  train  await  the  last  Amen.  Across  this 
still  picture  a  strange  thwart  vision  steals  : 
Alarcos,  from  the  front  of  the  stage,  staggers 
into  the  holy  place,  advances  towards,  yet 
approaches  not  completely,  the  place  most 
holy.  The  last  melting  chord,  the  last 
yearning  echo  of  the  voices,  are  still.  With 
the  stillness  the  altar  darkens,  yet  the 
chapels  gleam  afar  like  arches  shaped  of 
flame  and  amethyst.  The  prior's  deep  voice 
vibrates  through  the  darkness,  strong  yet 
tremulous,  in\dting  all  who  sin  and  sorrow 
to  approach  him.  Alarcos  reels  to  the  con- 
fessional ;  the  confession  all  shall  hear.  He 
confesses  !  —  oh,  hellish  perversion  of  truth 
by  pride  and  passion  —  a  crime  he  has  not 
committed.  In  the  anticipation  the  commis- 
sion is  confirmed  —  enforced.  For  though 
the  priest  thrusts  him  not  aAvay  from  the 
door  of  hope,  no,  not  when  he  confesses 
murder,  and  the  doubly-damning  motive  of 
Love  and  Power,  still  he  turns  not  to  clasp 
the  chance,  which  he  knows  maybe  certainty, 
for  he  is  yet  unstained  in  hand,  though  the 
soul  be  smirched  forever.  Unshriven  he 
goes  forth,  with  dry  eyes,  stainless  hand, 
and  the  lust  of  blood  raging  in  his  veins 
with  hotter  madness. 

Then  begins  the  anarchy  of  passions,  in 
which  all  love  changes  to  lust,  whether 
for  power  or  for  possession  of  that  once 
loved.  The  Infanta,  alone  with  her  father, 
again  demands,  this  time  without  reserve  or 
patience,  that  Alarcos  shall  be  hers.  Her 
father,  scared  from  self-confidence,  refers 
her  to  Alarcos  only,  and,  referred  to  Alar- 
cos, she  sacrifices  every  attribute  of  a  woman 
except  her  sex  ;  she  urges  their  union  before 
the  suit  which  shall  release  him  from  his 
present  marriage  can  be  settled  by  the 
church. 

From  this  moment  the  scent  of  murder 
seems  to  taint  the  entire  plot.  Leon,  who 
hates  Alarcos  for  his  supremacy  at  court 
which  still  prevails,  would  kill  him,  but  not 
with  his  own  hand.  In  return  for  his  pro- 
tection of  Oran  the  Moor,  he  demands  of 
him  that  he  shall  kill  Alarcos.  Oran  seems 
to  promise  such  allegiance,  but  will  not  act 
alone :  four  hired  murderers  do  his  bidding 
—  rush  upon  Alarcos  as  he  passes  —  boast- 
ing beforehand  of  success  in  a  savage  quar- 
tette, helped  by  brazen  discords ;  they  are 
scattered  in  an  instant  by  the  lightning  of 
Alarcos'  steel.  Oran  remains  to  fight  with 
liim  —  falls  wounded  by  the  same  charmed 
arm,  but  not  to  die  —  rises  burdened  with  a 
deadly  oath  that  for  the  life  now  spared  him, 
he  will  take  a  life  for  him  who  spares.  The 
voice  of  the  vow  is  terrible,  the  music  rages, 
the  dim  dream  of  horror  begins  to  dawn  as 
real. 


The  horror  is  again  suspended,  again  the 
audience  breathes.  The  strains  relenting, 
grow  thin,  gay,  drop  oft'  one  by  one,  and  be- 
tween the  third  and  fourth  act  you  hear  a 
solitary  mandolin.  It  is  a  monotonous,  yet 
merry  dance-measure.  Soon  it  illustrates, 
as  it  were,  a  vignette  of  refined  jictorial 
comedy  ;  a  gypsy-girl  dances  to  the  measure 
of  the  mandolin  in  an  inn  room,  her  lithe 
dark  form  bathed  in  fire-light  flushes : 
they  gleam,  too,  on  a  group  seated  round  a 
table  ;  dark  faces,  dark  forms,  drinking  i-eck- 
lessly,  drowning  now  and  then  the  music  with 
their  jokes  and  proverbs.  The  door  ojDenS; 
a  masked  stranger  enters,  shakes  a  purse  in 
the  fire-light,  asks  for  Oran  —  the  tragic 
tone  is  instantly  restored  —  nor  lost  again. 
Sidonia  tells  Florimonde  where  she  may  see 
her  husband  with  Solisa.  Her  tenderness  is 
too  deeply  probed  where  so  deeply  wounded. 
She  Avould  find  him  faithful  whom  she  yet 
believes  so.  She  consents.  She  enters  the 
palace-garden  like  an  angel  clothed  in  white ; 
the  moon  di'ops  on  her  a  veil  of  silvery 
beams,  and  on  the  fretted  marbles,  plashing 
fountains,  bloom-starred  myrtles,  whose  per- 
fume fills  the  theatre,  seeming  to  float  upon 
the  wings  of  the  almost  whispering  melodies 
that  are  as  though  the  leaves  should  shiver, 
and  the  winds  and  waters  murmur  them- 
selves in  music.  There  is  no  Alarcos  in- 
this  solitude,  and  no  Solisa ;  but  Sidonia 
rushes  in  to  carry  her  away.  Fast  and  thick 
multiply  the  tragic  phases  rushing  to  con- 
summation. Oran  bursts  upon  the  scene, 
beats  off'  Sidonia.  Florimonde  swoons  upon 
the  earth.  There  is  a  sudden  gleam  of 
torches  —  a  procession  in  the  midst  —  the 
Infanta,  who  returns  to  her  home  from  mass. 
She  sees  the  lovely  lady,  knows  not  Flori- 
monde, bids  them  bear  her  to  her  own  cham- 
ber. Alarcos  enters;  his  Avife  and  he  meet 
eye  to  eye.  Now  and  then,  from  that  mo- 
ment, the  sweet  voice  in  its  pure  tones  rises 
in  entreaty,  in  wonder,  over  the  vast  and 
awful  deceit  between  the  Infanta  and  Alarcos. 
The  voices  beat  down,  as  it  were,  the  orches- 
tra, one  against  the  other.  They  break  and 
rage.  Solisa,  at  the  crowning  moment,  in  a 
blind  agony  snatches  the  dagger  of  Alarcos 
—  she  rushes  to  the  couch  of  Florimonde. 
But  with  k  rending  imprecation  he  arrests 
her  hand :  for  the  crime  must  be  complete, 
to  merit  the  retribution  stored  in  heaven. 

Once  more,  for  the  last  time,  the  palace  cf 
Alarcos  rears  its  turrets  ;  light  from  the 
noonday  falls  dazzling  on  its  terraces.  Once 
more,  for  the  last  time,  on  those  terraces 
walks  Florimonde — for  the  last  time  sings  a 
swan's  song,  a  dream  of  death,  which  to  her 
pure  soul  is  only  heaven,  and  which  echoes 
from  angel  harps  and  voices  seem  to  answer. 
Oran  enters,  his  brow  gloomy  with  a  pallid 
cloud  ;  the  magnetic  vision  of  his  unmixed 
race  detects  the  doom  with  which  the  air  ia 
charged ;  with  quivering  finger  points  he  out, 
with  deep  trembling  voice  announces,  the 


RUMOR. 


little  cloud,  like  a  man's  hand,  swelled  just 
feintly  as  a  gray  moon-cvescent  on  the  burn- 
ing blue  of  heaven.  The  scene  shifts  ;  the 
blue  dazzle,  the  delicate  di'ead  portent  are 
swept  away. 

Once  more  the  palace  halls  break  stately 
on  the  eye,  their  light  puts  out  the  light  of 
day,  tenfold  radiance  streams  from  the  golden 
roof,  tcnfuld  tlames  the  jewel-blaze.  The 
hall  of  Belshazzar  glared  not  with  more  aw- 
ful si)lendor.  .There  is  a  feast  of  nielody,  a 
surfeit  of  delighting  sound  —  but  ever  and 
anon  the  music  surges  underneath.  Is  its 
fui-y  a  portent  ?  Does  the  storm  tread 
heaven  more  near  the  earth  ?  The  music 
rages  as  Solisa  and  Alarcos  meet.  They 
come  to  the  front  of  the  stage  —  the  dancers 
move  behind  them  —  none  approach.  That 
night  she  will  possess  Alarcos,  her  impellent 
passion  rushes  through  her  lips  —  his  answer 
shudders  from  his  own.  A  moment  more, 
and  he  is  gone. 

The  golden  lights  are  quenched,  darkness 
wraps  the  stage  —  seems  to  wrap  the  orches- 
tra. Not  long  ;  from  a  labyrinth  of  low, 
groping  tones,  breaks  in  music  thunder  — 
thunder  with  mountain  echoes  —  still  har- 
mony, but  too  profound  to  trace,  as  all 
colors  are  absorbed  in  black.  Blue,  white, 
and  livid  lightnings  thwart  the  blackness  of 
the  stage,  and  in  one  broad  cleaving  gleam 
you  see  a  charger,  black  as  hell ;  you  see 
Alarcos  on  him,  his  face  lit  up  white  by  the 
lightnings,  which  light  the  foam  of  the 
charger  up  like  snow  —  and  you  see  that  the 
lightnings  not  stream  and  shiver  only  round, 
but  cling  to  him  ;  pale  fire,  a  mail  of  electric 
lustre,  horrid  as  a  mist  of  hell,  grows  and 
gathers  to  liis  garments  as  he  rides  through 
the  storm  to  murder  Florimonde. 

He  is  at  home,  the  storm  is  spent,  the 
thunder-pulses  throb  less  heavily,  the  light- 
ning seems  to  smile.  Oran  enters.  Alarcos 
demands  of  him  the  fulfilment  of  his  mur- 
derous vow.  At  the  last  moment  of  life  this 
stained  soul  puts  on  the  robe  of  purity 
which  shall  clothe  him  fit  for  heaven.  Oran 
will  not  take  the  life  of  Florimonde.  Alarcos 
persists.  Cold  with  pride,  even  then,  he 
would  spare  his  own  hand  from  stain.  Oran, 
to  share  his  own  heart,  with  his  own  s;tained 
hand,  stabs  himself.  Florimonde,  paler  now 
than  all,  save  death  and  the  dying,  rushes  in 
—  her  hand  touches  the  wound  —  he  dies  in 
Paradise  of  that  touch. 

The  husband  and  wife  are  alohe  upon  the 
stage  ;  no  longer  she  pleads  —  no  more  he 
quails  beneath  her  holy  eyes  :  there  is  no 
more  thunder,  nor  passion,  nor  love.  He  j 
^nds  her  to  embrace  her  children  before  the 
long,  long  journey  he  is  going  to  send  her ; 
can  a  soul  so  black  know  how  short  is  the 
journey  for  a  soul  all  light  to  heaven  ?  One 
cry  breaks  from  her  heart  —  no  more  —  her 
heart  is  broken.  No  more  the  music  rages  ; 
but  while  the  stage  is  emptj,  void  of  all  save 
dead  Oran's  body,  an  ineffable  movement 


fills  the  orchestra,  of  soft  woe,  of  solemn 
triumph,  that  from  many  an  eye  draws  tears. 

Alarcos  returns  —  alone ;  the  violins  break 
from  the  ranks  of  harmony  with  shuddering 
discord — they  upbraid  with  spirit-like  shriek 
and  groan  the  miracle  of  crime  accom- 
plished. A  clanging  chaos,  both  of  sweet 
and  awful  sounds,  succeeds  —  a  trumpet 
blast  suspends  it  —  another,  and  the  chaos 
responds  in  calm  —  a  tliird,  and  silence  an- 
swers. In  the  silence,  as  the  sinner  stands 
alone,  the  messenger  enters.  In  recitative, 
which  the  wind  instruments  support  in  sim- 
ple unison,  lending  an  intense  distinctness 
to  the  appalling  words,  the  tale  is  told. 

The  storm  was  spent,  because  its  work  was 
done  ;  the  avenging  angel  had  returned  to 
heaven  in  its  track.     The  bolt  had  fallen,  — 

"  Winged  from  the  startling  blue  of  heaven, 
And  struck  —  the  Infanta." 

Alarcos  falls  —  self-sent  to  hell.  Or  has  the 
retribution,  equal  —  and  only  equal — to  the 
crime,  already  been  sufl[icient  ?  Has  not 
there  been  a  sacrifice  besides  ? 

No  pictorial  art,  nor  stage-phantasm,  ex- 
hibiting to  the  eye  the  similitude  of  that  ret- 
ribution, would  have  affected  the  audience  at 
the  croAvnring  crisis  of  suspense,  like  that  se- 
vere and  simple  recitation,  with  the  unisons 
of  tone.  It  was  like  truth,  not  drama  —  a 
fact,  not  a  representation.  There  was  a 
moral,  and  all  perceived  it.  At  the  last  dark 
word  of  Alarcos,  ere  he  fell,  the  twilight  stage 
grew  darker  ;  as  he  fell  there  was  darkness  — 
with  the  dark  there  was  silence,  and  the  cur- 
tain fell. 

He  who  was  most  difficult  to  satisfy 
through  the  ear,  and  whose  verdict  decided 
the  press,  was  the  first  to  raise  his  voice  — 
others  had  waited  for  him,  and  applauded 
that  —  more  and  more  swelled  the  tribute, 
till  it  burst  from  every  lip.  The  "  hundred- 
tongued  "  had  said  Amen  to  the  artist's  fii-st 
prayer  to  art. 

Be  it  not,  oh,  listening  devotee,  self-ador- 
ing, adoring  thine  own  creation  —  be  not  this 
first  prayer  to  art  thy  last  aspiration  towards 
a  Uivinif  /  higher  than  that  as  the  heavens 
are  higl  iv  than  the  earth  !  This  was  Lady 
Delucy's  first  hope  for  him,  breathed  to  her 
own  heart  only,  when  she  knew  his  first  hope 
fulfilled. 

He  went  home.  For  him,  that  sultry  and 
clouded  August  night,  the  sun  rose  upon  the 
landscape  of  his  life.  Sitting  in  a  slip  of 
room,  whose  small  dull  window  showed  no 
peeping  star,  where  no  lamp  burned,  where 
no  board  was  spread,  no  flask  filled,  he  was 
intoxicated,  but  not  with  wine.  No  fumes 
curled  round  his  brain,  confusing  fact  and 
fancy  in  thew  genial  heat ;  but  a  foretaste 
filled  his  being  of  life  to  be  longed  for, 
loathed  no  more  —  a  generous  existence 
budding,  that  should  blossom  in  blissful 
hours,  and  drop  ripe  fruits  in  the  footsteps 
of  the  future.  And  even  as  the  deep  luscious 


44 


RUMOR. 


draugjits  of  nectar  quaffed  at  feasts  Olym- 
pian, stimulated  the  thirst  of  hero-deities  to 
greater  exploits,  more  surpassing  pleasures  ; 
Bo  now  the  soul  of  the  musician  swelled  in 
him,  inimitably  to  expand  the  brightness  of 
Lis  art —  shall  we  not  sigh  to  say  besides,  his 
own  glory  ?  A  delirium  of  rapture,  whose 
clouds  were  golden  as  they  pressed  upon  his 
bi-ow,  and  burned  in  his  sharpened  pulses, 
revealed  that  fever  which  was  but  joy  exces- 
sive, excessive  unto  pain.  How  long  he  sat, 
like  one  that  mused  in  the  midst  of  madness, 
lost  in  thoughts  that  seemed  vaster  than  his 
own  soul,  he  knew  not ;  in  such  wild  medita- 
tion time  is  annihilated,  and  yet  more  in  love. 
For  all  through  that  golden  atmosphere, 
itself  so  bright,  there  flashed  an  image  which 
was  its  sun,  and  it  was  a  tangible  vision 
which  ruled  the  being  no  longer  consecrated 
to  art  alone,  and  the  self-love  she  almost 
makes  divine. 


CHAPTER   XI. 

No  marvel  that  the  old  world  inwrapt 
itself  in  mysterious  creeds  of  destiny,  of 
doom,  of  solar  and  astral  influences,  when 
the  laws  which  govern  organization  were  un- 
known, and  a  man  determined  not  by  any  j 
physiological  deductions,  the  difference  be-  j 
tween  himself  and  other  men.  In  this  life  of  [ 
sadness  and  ])robation,  where  to  the  philoso- 
pher, the  idealist,  and  the  saint,  even  rapture 
is  but  a  milder  melancholy  than  woe,  we  j 
are  never  astonished  to  see  troubled  faces,  to  j 
read  strange  and  tragic  stories  in  men's  eyes  ; 
we  do  not  wonder  at  the  care-wasted,  the 
passion-worn,  the  calm-despairing  ;  but  we 
are  surprised  at  success,  and  more  than  all, 
when  the  successful  can  appreciate  and  de- 
light in  it.  Perhaps  the  sympathy  and  inter- 
est excited  in  the  minds  of  a  few,  by  a  writer 
or  artist  if  special  character  and  feeling, 
however  much  attesting  originality  and  ex- 
clusive talent,  yet  show,  that  to  the  power  of 
such  a  mind  a  limit  is  set,  by  some  encroach- 
ing mortal  weakness,  or  too  intense  spirit- 
ualism. A  really  vast  genius  in  art  will 
affect  all  classes,  and  touch  even  the  uniniti- 
ated with  trembling  and  delight,  and  pene- 
trate even  the  ignorant  with  strong  if  tran- 
sient spell,  as  the  galvanic  energy  binds  each 
and  all  who  embrace  in  the  chain-circle  of 
grasping  hands  in  the  shock  of  perfect  sym- 
pathy. 

As  for  this  opera  of  Alarcps,  not  only  were 
the  three  performances  of  its  free  inaugura- 
tion attended  by  every  invited  person,  but 
the  first  performance  the  week  afterwards, 
for  which  tickets  were  issued,  as  from  any 
other  theatre,  was  thronged  to  the  doors,  and 
many  were  turned  away.  Then,  after  a  day 
or  tw  ,  ^ame  the  reviews  —  those  anatomical 
pieparations  of  words  which  fresh  authors 


think  as  much  too  important  at  first,  as  tl  ey 
grow  to  think  too  little  important  afterwards. 
The  reviews  in  this  case  were  all  favorable^ 
however  ignorantly  they  dealt  with  their  sub- 
ject—  except  in  one  instance,  where  wisdom 
and  approbation  went  hand  in  hand.  Lady 
Delucy  sent  all  the  reviews  to  the  composer, 
for  no  one  knew  where  he  was,  and  through 
her  only  could  he  be  communicated  with. 
She  gave  him  time  to  read  them,  for  she 
deemed  the  joys  of  triumph  as  sacred  as  the 
torture  of  disa])pointment ;  and  then,  as  he 
came  not  to  her,  she  went  to  him.  It  was 
the  first  time  she  had  Ibeen  to  his  lodgings  ; 
and  she  took  his  motlier  with  her  up  stairs, 
leaving  her  outside  the  dooi-.     She  knocked 

—  there  was  no  answer  —  nor  any  when  she 
knocked  again.  Was  it  not  absurd  to  treat 
him  like  a  man  after  all?  Was  he  not  young 
enough  to  have  been  her  child?  So  she 
turned  the  handle  gently,  and  went  in.  He 
was  sitting  at  the  table,  in  an  attic  bare  of 
any  furniture  save  a  bed,  a  chair,  and  table, 
a  piano,  and  a  stool.  He  Avas  Avriting ;  sheets 
lay  all  about  him  ready  for  the  press  ;  all  the 
reviews  lay  in  a  heap  on  the  floor  —  at  least, 
there  lay  the  papers  that  contained  them. 
As  the  lady  entered,  he  looked  up  and 
frowned,  at  the  same  time  a  flush,  ever  rare 
upon  his  face,  reddened  it,  but  it  did  not 
look  like  the  crimson  of  anger  or  irritation. 
His  words  explained  it  partly. 

"  I  did  not  know  it  was  you,  lady,  or  I  had 
not  been  so  rude.  I  tell  my  mother  she  is  to 
knock  if  she  wants  me,  which  she  has  no  oc- 
casion to  do  at  all :  however,  she  is  to  knock 

—  and  if  I  don't  answer  her.  to  knock  again  ; 
if  I  don't  speak  then,  she  is  to  go  away  — 
not  to  knock  a  third  time.  But  you,  lady, 
should  not  have  knocked  —  you  should  have 
come  in  straight.  How  could  I  have  ex- 
pected, even  if  I  had  guessed,  it  might  be 
you  ?  You  have  been  away  so  long,  forget- 
ting me  entirely.  There  is  one  comfort 
though,  you  have  forgotten  me  for  something, 
which  is  also  of  me,  but  greater  than  myself." 
All  this  time  he  went  on  writing  —  it  was 
evident  that  his  abstraction  was  not  of  the 
higher  faculties. 

"  Why  do  you  write  so  hard  ?  "  asked  Lady 
Delucy,  sitting  down  on  the  music  stool. 
"  I  want  to  pay  you.     Suppose  I  die  first 

—  such  a  debt  would  darken  my  purest  re- 
nown. But  no  one  knows  it,  only  I.  Is  not 
my  purest  renown  your  approbation  ?  " 

"  You  have  read  those  ?  "  she  asked,  kindly 
and  smilingly,  pointing  to  the  papers  in  the 
corner. 

"  How  can  persons  criticise  music  unless 
they  are  musicians  —  equal,  besides,  to  the 
music  they  criticise?  It  is  different  with 
books  —  every  body  writes  now,  and  critics 
better  than  authors.  But  music !  Those  are 
all  stuff,  except  one,  and  that  makes  up  for 
all  the  rest.  That  is  good  and  true,  and  a 
master  must  have  written  it  —  a  master,  at 
least,  of  words,  and  of  the  secret  of  compo- 


RUMOR. 


45 


gition,  whether  he  can  create  or  not.  I 
should  like  to  see  him.  As  for  the  other 
notices,  they  will  light  the  fire,  just  as  these 
rags  and  scraps,  which  are  paper  money  now 
to  me,  will  one  day  light  future  fires." 

"  I  do  M'onder  how  you  can  write  so,"  she 
exclaimed,  turning  over  waltzes,  and  ballads, 
and  fantasias,  all  brilliant  and  of  marked 
efl'ect,  yet  all  endowed  with  that  extreme  fa- 
cility for  voice  and  finger,  which  none  but  the 
Domposer  who  has  surmounted  the  last  diffi- 
culty, can  impart  with  ease. 

"They  make  me  bitter  on  myself — they  are 
degrading,  but  only  for  a  time.  They  sell  — 
oh,  how  they  sell'!  And  yet  there  is  one 
thing  more  ;  for  soon  all  the  women,  whose 
fools  of  parents,  and  greater  fools  of  teachers, 
have  told  that  they  have  soprano  voices,  will 
scream  the  holy  songs  of  Florimonde ;  and 
the  rest,  who  cannot  even  scream,  yet  will 
sing  —  will  scrape  their  throats  with  the  deep 
passion  of  Solisa.  Soon,  soon,"  and  he 
sighed —  "  that  is  the  worst  part.  I  do  not 
know  whether  in  the  midst,  it  was  after  all 
the  consciousness  that  by  my  power  alone, 
that  crowd  was  kept  so  still  to  listen.  I  do 
not  know  that  the  delight  was  there  —  some- 
thing stronger  still,  not  of  myself,  nor  them, 
sustained  me." 

"  Ah  !  yes." 

"  You  -who  love  art,  and  lie  not  as  hun- 
dreds do  who  say  they  love  it,  you  know  that 
art  is  sola-ce  and  strength  alone.  Yet,  when 
it  was  over,  how  was  it  that  the  memory  was 
not  stronger  ?  it  should  have  been,  and  suf- 
ficient too.  Why  the  memory  was  worth 
less  than  the  anticipation.  It  is  this  ;  there 
were  faults,  there  was  weakness,  none  else 
perceived  them.  I  alone  can  criticise  and 
reform  myself  Next  time  it  must  be  stronger 
—  it  must  annihilate  the  fame  of  this  — the 
sun  must  put  out  the  little  hght  of  this 
morning  star.  Stop,  lady,  do  not  go  ;  the 
man  is  coming  directlv  for  these  ;  will  you 
wait,  for  I  wish  to  ask  you  another  favor. 
Not  a  big  one,  a  very  Httle  one,  the  least  you 
can  grant,  much  less  than  many  I  shall  ask 
you." 

He  glanced  at  her  with  sudden  sparkling 
eyes,  but  she  saw  them  not,  she  was  patiently 
untying  the  strings  of  her  bonnet,  for  truly 
she  humored  him  too  much ;  she  waited. 
For  half  an  hour  he  went  on  writing,  then 
made  the  papers  into  a  packet,  fastened  the 
string  and  seal  with  deft  fingers,  and  taking 
it  outside  the  door,  threw  it  to  the  bottom 
of  the  stairs,  and  came  ir  again. 

"  There  will  be  no  more  of  Alarcos  till  the 
spring,"  he  said  ;  "  and  as  every  body  who 
fe  fine  is  going  into  the  country  I  suppose 
you  are  going  too,  lady."   This,  with  a  sneer. 

"  I  shall  go ;  my  daughter's  health  re- 
quu-es  it,  and  I  hope  you  are  coming  with 
me ;  it  will  do  you  much  more  good  to  write 
there.     I  shall  not  go  for  a  week,  however." 

"  Well,  I  am  not  coming  to  your  country 
house,   at  least  1  do  not  know  yet.     But 


never  mitid  that ;  I  want  you,  lady,  to  take 
me  with  you  to  one  of  those  parties  you 
told  nij  of,  where  you  wished  to  take  me 
before,  and  I  would  not  go,  because  I  would 
not  be  insignificant  among  the  insignificant. 
Above  all.  among  those  who  rule.  I  want 
to  see  your  celebrated  persons,  your  literary 
ones,  —  those  of  whom  men  talk,  and  for 
whom  women  feel  the  most.  You  know 
what  you  told  me  about  fame  and  fashion. 
I  wish  to  see  both,  for  I  am  now  famous,  and 
you  know  it  —  you  cannot  be  ashamed." 

"  Ashamed  !  I  should  be  proud  ;  but  I  am 
wondering  where  to  take  you,  for  so  many 
people  are  gone.  There  are  dinners,  cer- 
t?ahily." 

"  Oh  !  I  could  not  sit  still  for  those,  nor 
eat  their  food.  I  only  eat  pulse  and  drink 
water,  like  the  Hebrew  children  who  grew 
so  strong." 

"  It  is  also  very  difficult  to  gather  the  cel- 
ebrated persons  together.  The  most  famous 
poetess  is  in  Italy  ;  the  poet  laureate  has  not 
been  in  London  all  the  summer.  Our  great- 
est painter  is  just  dead." 

"  I  thought  Romana  was  your  greatest 
painter  ;  he  thinks  himself  so  I  know." 

"  I  do  not  think  he  does — hoM-ever,  he  is 
not.  He  will  never  be  buried,  as  our  king 
painter  lies,  in  St.  Paul's  Cathedral." 

"  I  would  rather  be  buried  there,"  pointing 
to  the  towers  of  the  abbey,  which  were  the 
only  fair  sight  from  the  garret  window. 
"  Yet  —  buried  ;  no,  it  is  not  time  to  die  ;  " 
then  he  shivered.  "  But  after  letting  the 
whole  world  know,  I  would  return  and  give 
my  ashes  to  the  dust  beneath  the  feet  of 
those  who  first  confessed  me.  I  will  not 
yet  die  —  love  me  not  too  well  ye  gods  !  I 
could  not  die  young,  for  there  is  weakness, 
if  the  body  fails  before  the  brain,  and  I  am 
strong." 

Yes,  thought  the  lady,  as  she  looked  at 
his  frame,  delicate  but  compact,  like  fine 
wrought  iron,  no  gossamer  frostwork ;  at 
his  youth-keen  eyes,  that  almost  pained  her 
vision  with  their  piercing  centre-spark  ;  at 
his  brow  of  grainlike  granite,  and  almost  of 
granite  hardness  ;  not  the  poHsh  which  on 
certain  ivory-like  temples  attests  the  most 
fragile  of  all  God's  structures  to  enclose  the 
spirit.  Strong,  she  recurred  again  to  the 
word,  yes,  too  strong  to  die,  but  strong 
enough  to  suff'er  till  death  is  yearned  for,  yet 
will  not  come.  Strange  too,  she  thought, 
that  man,  strong  man,  pities  the  early  dead; 
those  who  fall  as  flowers  under  the  sickle 
with  the  dew  yet  upon  their  leaves  ;  and  he 
deems  long  life,  with  the  failure  of  "  deske," 
at  last,  a  sublimer  fate  ! 

"  Shall  I  disgrace  you,  if  you  take  me 
with  you  ?  "  he  asked  suddenly,  seeing  her 
fair  countenance  so  grave,  regarding  him. 

"  Shall  you  be  ashamed  of  me  ?  "  she  an« 
swered,  smiling  again  as  only  she  could 
smile.  •'  I  was  not  thinking  about  it  at  all. 
But  fear  not;  your  artistic  preeminence  will 


46 


RUMOR. 


give  you  fame,  and  your  eccentricity,  because 
it  is  natural  to  you,  will  give  you  fashion." 

"  One  thing,  lady,  more.  If  you  ask  me 
to  play,  or  to  play  for  you  if  you  sing,  I  will 
do  it ;  but  if  any  one  else  asks  me,  I  will  go 
out  of  the  house,  and  leave  you  to  tell  them 
■why." 

"  You  will  be  fashionable,"  she  said,  laugh- 
ing, you  need  not  even  change  your  coat." 

Lady  Delucy  at  last  selected  an  evening 
to  take  him  into  public.  She  did  not  choose 
to  make  market  out  of  him  by  introducing 
him  at  her  own  house,  not  because  —  though 
studiously  conscientious  in  the  fulfilment  of 
her  social  claims,  though  no  one  could  be 
more  profitable  and  hearty  in  the  part  of 
hostess,  —  she  did  not  love  society ;  only 
submitted  to  it  with  a  patience  and  self- 
denial  very  peculiar,  as  peculiar  as  her  dis- 
taste for  it,  which  scarcely  any  of  her  sex 
share,  and  none  save  those  flitting  excep- 
tions would  beHeve.  But  she  would  not  ex- 
hibit Rodomant  at  her  house,  because  in 
that  case  she  must  perforce  be  preoccupied, 
and  unable  to  watch  him.  She  took  a 
strange  and  passionate  interest  in  this  j-oung 
heart,  which  had  for  its  companion  in  the 
flesh,  so  strong  a  spirit  and  precociously 
mature  a  genius.  She  knew  him  yet  so  pure 
in  life,  by  the  instinct  which  is  left  only  to 
the  pure  in  heart ;  and  she  trembled  for  the 
tests  that  must  await  him,  for,  perhaps,  than 
the  artist,  none  meet  with  temptations  more 
manifold,  or  more  difficult  to  resist. 

Not  till  the  rigorously  fashionable  had  left 
town,  could  she  find  an  evening  on  which  to 
fulfil  even  the  least  part  of  his  request.  She 
went  to  fetch  him  alone,  for  Elizabeth,  who 
affiected  society  even  less  than  her  mother, 
though  from  a  more  obvious  cause,  would  not 
go  out  that  night ;  she  was  writing  a  letter, 
which  Avas  a  volume,  for  the  Indian  Mail. 
Rodomant  kept  his  patroness  waiting  a  long 
time,  and  when  he  at  last  appeared  and 
took  his  seat  opposite  her  own,  he  decbred 
that  he  did  not  want  to  go  at  all,  and  only 
went  to  please  her.  "  I  was  M-riting,"  said 
he,  "  a  special  song  for  you,  and  when  we 
come  back  to-night,  I  will  sing  it  to  you." 
"  It  will  be  too  late  then,"  she  said,  "  and, 
besides,  may  I  not  sing  it  myself?"  "I 
said  a  song  for  you,  not  a  song  for  you  to 
sing.  It  cannot  be  too  late  ;  it  is  a  song  to 
sing  at  night,  and  I  shall  sing  it  at  twelve, 
or  two,  or  three."  Then  he  threw  himself 
back  in  the  carriage,  and  deranged  his  hair 
with  his  hands,  though  an  accomplished 
hairdresser  had  arranged  and  cut  it,  and 
carried  away  a  harvest  of  the  soft  brown 
sweepings  for  ladies'  fronts.  And  he  was 
carefully,  even  fashionably  attired,  to  the 
lady's  surprise,  for  he  had  only  worn  one 
coat  since  his  arrival  in  England,  and  that 
was  so  fretted  and  threadbare  that  it  was  a 
wonder  it  did  not  fall  to  pieces  ;  though  in 
spite  of  this  carelessness  in  respect  of  those 
incumbrances  (the  costlier  the  greater)  called 


clothes,  he  had  that  mania  for  the  bath, 
which  is  the  most  certain  certificate  of  refined 
blood,  however  distant  from  their  source  its 
filtered  drops  may  flow.  When  they  arrived 
he  was  in  such  a  dream,  that  the  lady  had  tc 
address  him  three  times  before  he'  stirred 
though  he  smiled  each  time  she  spoke,  a 
sleepers  smile  in  slumber  at  some  swef 
instinct  of  a  dream.  At  last  he  crept  o\.. 
noiselessly,  after  her,  and  into  a  hall  of  oi 
of  those  large  new  houses,  whose  fror. 
flaunt  at  Hyde  Park,  and  cast  their  mockii. 
shadow  over  the  small  old-style  abodes  Mhic. 
pertain  to  families  of  style"  antique,  which 
they  have  too  strong  taste  to  modernize. 
These  large  new  houses  meet  the  exigency 
of  the  times  ;  rich  tradespeople,  doctors  who 
are  fashionable  and  would  be  rich,  and  cer- 
tain clergymen  who  can  afford  to  be  fashion- 
able, rent  them  generally ;  but  they  often 
change  their  tenants.  To  Rodomant,  bred 
in  an  old  German  town,  where,  instead  of 
convenience,  ruled  the  picturesque,  a  town 
out  of  the  route  of  tourists,  and  only  visited 
by  art-students  and  bookworms,  this  house 
was  a  fairy-palace.  He  saw  no  new  furni- 
ture, nor  brilliant  appointments  at  Lady 
Delucy's  house ;  she  gave  away  a  great 
1  deal  too  much  to  be  able  to  aflbrd  them  ; 
for  to  be  really  generous,  even  the  rich 
must  deny  themselves  —  to  be  generous 
according  to  their  means  — we  speak  not  of 
just  charities  which  men  perform  (as  they 
go  to  church)  for  fear  of  not  going  to 
heaven  when  their  change  shall  come.  And 
Rodomant's  delight  in  illusion  was  like  that 
of  the  German  child,  and  up  to  that  time 
had  been  as  cheaply  satisfied  as  the  German 
child  is  satisfied  with  its  formal  tree  at 
Christmas,  its  gingerbread  monstrosities, 
frightful  toys,  and  flickering  tapers,  such  as 
a  French  child  Mould  flout,  and  of  which 
an  English  child  would  without  fail  inquire, 
how  much  (or  rather  how  little)  such  a 
paltry  show  had  cost  ? 

"  Whose  house  is  this  ?  "  inquired  Rodo- 
mant, lingering  on  the  first  landing,  and 
staring  at  every  thing  as  a  matchless  spec- 
tacle. 

"  Whose  think  you  ?  "  returned  the  lady, 
humoring  him,  though  she  took  care  to  .speak 
in  German  while  the  servants  were  at  hand. 

"  An  ambassador's,  the  Russian  ambassa- 
dor's, no  doubt." 

"  It  is  the  house  of  a  publisher  ;  do  you 
remember  the  dark  shop  I  showed  you  in 
the  city  the  other  day  ?  " 

"  Where  the  man  sold  books  written  by 
other  persons  ?     Yes." 

"  This  is  his  house,  his  home." 

Further,  he  had  just  thought  fit  to  marry, 
which  might  excuse,  as  well  as  account  for 
the  fact  that  in  the  house  was  every  thing 
'  completely  new,  new  as  a  servant-maid's  bon- 
'  net  on  Easter  Sunday  ;  therefore,  and  only 
therefore,  the  least  vulgar.  There,  in  th« 
drawing-room,  were  the  inevitable  gold  jpi- 


HUMOR. 


47 


ored  curtain?  =  Ac]  the  sage  l.jusewife 
knows  light  i  ;  so  V:  ell ;  there  the  chande- 
liers of  Oslei,  the  carpets  of  Crossley,  the 
musical  instruments  of  Erard ;  there  the 
dull  books  clothed,  like  many  a  dull  person, 
in  costly  dresses ;  there  the  portfolios  of 
those  standard  eiio;ravings  which  every  body 
buys,  and  therefore  nobody  looks  at ;  there 
were  the  copies  of  copies,  the  mimics  of 
models,  the  patented  elegancies  which  have 
inundated  societj-  since  the  opening  of  the 
Crystal  Palace ;  there  were  the  countless 
photographs  of  known  and  unknown,  wise 
and  foolish  portraits  which  have  palled  upon 
the  sense  of  sight  since  science  (vainly) 
sought  a  rivalry  with  art.  Earnestly,  in- 
deed, must  these  money-spinners  grub  all  the 
morning,  to  burst  into  such  splendid  butter- 
flies at  night.  Lady  Delucy  found  it  hard 
work  to  get  up  to  the  master  of  the  house, 
and  to  pull  her  companion  with  her,  and  at 
last,  having  succeeded  in  introducing  him, 
he  shrank  away  into  a  corner,  and  not  shyly, 
but  cynically,  surveyed  the  people  present, 
who  by  no  means  seemed  to  charm  his  fancy 
like  the  room  itself. 

"  Are  all  these  people  famous  ?  "  he  de- 
manded, dryly,  "  for  there  are  so  many  of 
them,  that  in  that  case  it  would  be  more 
original  to  be  a  fool." 

"  I  have  not  recognized  one  yet ;  T  will 
look  out."  She  cast  her  eyes  round  and 
through  the  crowd,  wherever  it  divided. 

"  Do  you  see,"  she  said  at  last,  "  that  gen- 
tleman who  leans  against  the  wall  ?  " 

"  To  whom  every  body  speaks,  as  they 
pass,  while  he  bows  without  moving  his 
lips  ?  " 

"  What  think  you  of  him  ?  " 

"  He  would  not  be  so  ugly,  if  he  did  not 
look  so  awful ;  grave  as  the  grave,  he  is 
gray,  not  only  his  hair,  but  his  face  ;  he  is 
cold  and  grim  as  a  winter's  night ;  he  is  like 
old  Death.  He  must  be  miserable,  and  born 
to  make  others  so." 

"  He  is  the  most  famous  person  present, 
and  deserves  his  fame.  He  is  a  very  great 
writer,  perhaps  the  greatest,  some  say  so. 
He  is  a  popular  idol  now,  and  a  word  from 
his  lips  is  much  more  cared  for  than  the 
queen's  sweetest  speech." 

"  Then  he  is  very  ungrateful  to  look  so. 
Is  it  not  ingratitude,  lady  ?  " 

"  I  think  not ;  the  follies  of  others  have 
worn  him  low  ;  this  vain  world  afflicts  him, 
for  he  is  good.  He  sees  through  all  mate- 
rial things,  and  the  motives  of  selfish  men, 
as  a  surgeon  would  see  you  an  unclothed 
skeleton,  and  watch  the  coursing  of  your 
blood." 

"  But  surgeons  do  not  suffer  as  he  looks  to 
suffer  on  account  of  the  sufferings  of  others ; 
they  are  not  leaden-pale,  they  do  not  Avince." 

"  Did  you  see  him  wince  ?  "  thought  the 
lady.  Then  aloud  :  "  It  may  be  good  for 
you  to  know  what  the  famous  have  to  bear, 
despite  their  fame.     That  man  is  in  constant 


torture,  nameless,  unknown  —  torture  that 
at  last  must  kill ;  torture  that  wrestles  with 
time  yet  cannot  strangle  it.  He  must,  and 
he  will,  endure  to  the  end,  — but  how  long  ? 
Who  shall  tell  the  length  of  moments,  made 
millenniums  by  pain  ?  yet  blessed,  thrice 
blessed,  if  so  intensely  purified."  Tears 
stood  in  her  maternal  eyes,  tears  soon  gath- 
ering ever  in  them,  yet  seldom  or  never  fall- 
ing. The  young  adept  in  art  who  knew  of 
nothing  else,  looked  at  her  with  wonder  ;  he 
had  fought  with  the  goblin  nprve-shadoMs, 
and  deemed  them  agony's  own  substance; 
what  more  then  was  that  real  agony,  which, 
as  she  spoke,  he  felt  he  did  7iot  know  ?  " 

"  Do  you  mean,  lady,  that  he  is  made  to 
suffer  because  he  is  famous  ?  I  do  not  see 
the  necessity,  if  he  is  good." 

"  Just  because  he  is  good.  I  grant  there 
have  been  —  may  have  been,  rather,  for  my 
creed  disclaims  the  dogma  —  famous  men 
who  have  never  suffered  in  just  proportion 
to  their  triumph.  These  men  were  doubtless 
7iot  good.  Yet  who  shall  say  that  the  unut- 
terable iniquities  of  the  greatest  tyrants 
have  not  been  recompensed  by  fears  as  un- 
utterable. Alarcos  might  have  taught  you 
that." 

"  That  is  a  poem  ;  these  are  real  men. 
Well,  lady,  surely  some  few  are  born  under 
a  morning  star.  There  is  Romana  come  in, 
with  his  beautiful,  golden  wife.  What  will 
you  tell  me  of  him  ?  he,  at  least,  looks  happy." 

"  Yes,  now.  There  shines  upon  him  that 
rainbow  which,  seen  at  morning,  they  do  say 
warns  us  of  storm  before  the  night.  Happy, 
I  grant  you,  in  his  home  ;  and  he  would  be 
entirely  so  if  he  could  only  look  to  home  for 
happiness,  but  he  cannot ;  his  vivid  talents 
counterfeit  genius  to  his  own  partial  eye. 
Because  he  cannot  create,  he  esteems  combi- 
nation above  creation.  Yet,  as  in  all  cases 
where  the  intellectual  conscience  is  not  self- 
satisfied,  he  is  intensely  conscious  that  his  is 
but  a  class-reputation  —  nor  is  that  class  the 
Jirst  class." 

'"'  And  any  thing  else  is  —  yes,  you  are 
right,  lady,  it  is  despicable  ;  I  would  not 
pick  it  up." 

"  Then  see  the  glaring  melancholy  of  his 
eye.  He  knows  that  as  his  fame  is  secta- 
rian, so  his  artistic  revelations  are  narrow 
of  conception,  just  as  they  are  of  completion 
overwrought.  He  feels  defects  he  cannot 
remedy ;  he  can  see  where  he  cannot  soar ; 
yet,  in  comparison  with  many,  known  and 
gifted,  he  is  happy  —  for  his  nature  is  all 
reverence,  his  principles  are  incorrupt. 
Know  yo-i.  my  young  friend,  that  it  is  not 
so  with  aii  who  stand  in  the  light  of  all 
men's  eyes  for  judgment." 

"  Who,"  asked  Rodomant,  after  a  musing 
moment,  in  which  he  seemed  to  drink  down 
her  meaning  as  a  child  at  its  mother's  knee 
when  she  speaks  of  God  —  "who  is  that 
man  like  a  wild  beast  —  a  tamo  beast,  rather, 
who  is   talking  with  his  mouth  wide  open 


48 


•RUMOR. 


like  a  frog,  to  a  very  beautiful  young  lady, 
and  who  looks  as  though  he  wished  to  eat 
ber,  and  was  measuring  in  his  eye  exactly 
where  he  should  begin.  Surely,  he  is  king 
of  the  cannibals,  and  she  is  not  safe." 

"  Your  tame  beast  is  your  critic,  the  man 
whose  master-words  about  a  master-work 
you  prized  so  dearly ;  the  young  lady  you 
tall  so  beautiful  is  indeed  beautiful,  though 
Rot  young  ;  she  has  been  called  for  twenty 
years  the  rose  of  all  the  seasons.  She  is 
(old,  and  hard,  and  heartless  ;  her  fame  was 
her  beauty,  and  she  was  not  tender-minded 
enough  to  give  her  beauty  (all  she  had  to 
give)  to  any  other  heart." 

*'  I  don't  call  beauty  fame  ;  have  women 
no  other  ?  and  if  they  have,  surely  they  are 
purer  than  men." 

•'  Men  and  women  are  equal  sinners,  I  be- 
lieve. But  when  I  remember  what  women 
ought  to  be,  what  is  their  protection  from 
the  temptations  which  harass  men  the  most, 
I  must  confess  to  honoring  men  the  most ; 
this  is  doubtless  a  woman's  faith,  but  so  it 
possesses  me.  I  will  give  you  two  instances, 
that  you  may  not  think  too  well  of  women, 
for  even  that  is  dangerous." 

"  I  should  never  think  well  of  women,  for 
I  should  never  think  at  all  except  of  one 
woman." 

"  Listen,"  said  the  lady,  who,  though  she 
did  not  clearly  comprehend,  did  not  like 
this  speech.  "  You  see  the  lady  yonder 
with  men  all  round  her,  she  who  bends  to 
them  as  though  she  were  a  queen.  Many 
crowns  she  wore  as  her  right,  for  the  many 
rights  of  genius  were  hers  ;  but  the  last 
crown  she  took  to  herself  she  usurps  ill 
wearing ;  it  is  another's,  only  the  real  queen 
is  dead,  and  there  is  no  one  brave  enough  to 
pluck  the  crown  from  the  brow  of  her  who 
wears  it  falsely." 

"  I  don't  understand  one  word,"  said  Rod- 
omant,  confused,  and  no  wonder  at  the  lady's 
sudden  indignation,  which  filled  her  clear 
forehead  as  with  the  light  of  fii-e,  and  trem- 
bled on  her  lips. 

"  I  will  tell  you.  The  greatest  genius 
among  women  in  this  country  died  a  year 
ago.  Till  that  woman  died  no  one  knew 
who  she  was ;  she  lived  alone  like  a  white 
'  snowdrop  springing  from  a  snow-bound  sod 
in  a  wild  wintry  field.  Pure  as  snow  she 
lived,  died  sudden  as  a  snowdrop  under  the 
earliest  warmth  of  spring.  That  woman 
had  written  a  book  the  whole  world  read,  in 
every  tongue  the  tale  was  told,  it  rung  in 
every  ear.  At  the  end  of  the  book  there 
was  the  touching  history  of  a  man  whose 
eyes  were  put  out  in  his  head,  blinded  by 
tiie  fill  of  a  rafter  from  a  burning  house. 
This  may  sound  a  simple  incident  enough  to 
you  who  have  not  read  the  book,  but  let  me 
tell  you  that  the  beauty  and  perfection  of 
the  book  depend  upon  it.  The  woman  he 
has  loved,  and  \vho,  to  save  her  soul's  peace 
and   his,  left  him   long   before,  found   him 


when  he  was  blind,  comforted  and  loved 
him,  then  staid  with  him  forever.  Now  1 
tell  you  that  the  queen  on  the  sofa  out  there, 
writing  a  poem,  and  not  knowing  how  to  fin- 
ish it,  adopted  that  incident  just  as  it  was 
written  in  the  book  of  the  dead  authoress, 
and  wrote  it  in  her  own.  A  man  struck 
blind  by  the  fall  of  a  burning  brand,  and  a 
woman  restored  to  his  love  just  afterwards. 
And  yet  not  a  single  critic  noticed  this  lit- 
erary imitation." 

"  As  far  as  I  understand,  that  is  an  evil 
story,  but  you  must  show  me  the  book,  lady, 
and  the  poem,  then  I  shall  understand  it  all. 
It  seems  better  to  be  sorrowful  than  wicked ; 
of  this,  I  am  determined  —  that  I  will  be 
neither.  Are  there  pny  more  women  who 
have  done  such  things  ?  " 

"  You  shall  hear  of  one  more,  because 
she  is  here.  See  her  there  ;  she  is  pale,  and 
very  fair,  yet  you  shall  acknowledge  that  she 
looks,  of  all  here,  least  at  ease.  When  she 
was  very  young  she  was  to  be  married  to  a 
man  worthy  of  all  love,  as  perfect  a  person 
as  can  be  found  on  earth  ;  she  loved  him  too, 
with  all  her  mind  and  strength  —  I  do  not 
say  her  heart  and  soul,  because  if  a  heart  is 
really  touched,  it  must  be  constant,  if  a  soul 
is  filled,  it  cannot  fail  in  fiith.  Her  lover 
was  drowned,  just  before  the  day  appointed 
for  their  marriage.  "Well,  she  was,  and  is,  a 
poetess  ;  she  wrote  an  entire  book  about 
him,  the  most  exquisite  memorial  that  ever  • 
immortalized  a  man  on  earth ;  it  made  his 
remembrance  fragrant  as  an  imperishable 
violet,  worn  in  every  breast.  No  book  ever 
drew  such  sympathy  of  tears  from  human 
eyes.  The  very  first  poem  in  the  book  vyas 
an  assumption  of  perpetual  virginity.  She 
wore  that  virgin  widowhood  for  fifteen  years, 
and  then " 

"  She  died,  of  course." 

"  She  married." 

"  And  what  did  the  world  say  ?  " 

"It  said  no  more  than  about  that  pla- 
giarist who  appropriated  an  incident  from  a 
dead  writer,  and  that  writer  a  sister-woman. 
The  world  smiled  at  the  marriage  contract, 
and  went  to  the  wedding." 

"  I  will  come  to  no  more  parties  with  you, 
lady ;  I  Avish  I  had  not  come  at  all,  to  hear 
these  ugly  stories.  But  one  thing  you  shall 
see,  that  there  shall  be  one  famous  who 
never  wearies  of  fame,  nor  of  trying  tJ 
deserve  it.  One  happy,  who  yet  shall  de- 
serve his  happiness." 

He  spoke  low  and  very  fast,  and  a  sudden 
mortification  fell  upon  him,  as  he  remarked 
that  the  lady  did  not  seem  to  attend.  Sud- 
denly she  had  dropped  as  it  were  the  thread 
of  the  association.  She  was  looking  at  the 
door  through  which  three  persons  were 
entering  —  Geraldine,  Geraldi,  and  Diamid 
Albany. 


RUMOR. 


49 


CHAPTER  XIL 

Had  not  Lady  Delucy  been  akogether 
astonished  at  Geraldine's  looks,  she  would 
have  certainly  been  as  much  surprised  at 
the  appearance  at  all  in  public,  of  the  boy 
her  cousin.  As  it  was,  she  did  not  turn  her 
eyes  on  Geraldi,  which,  after  a  cordial  if  not 
glad  greeting  of  Albany  himself,  she  fas- 
tened on  Geraldine  with  inquiring  distress. 
"  My  dear  child,"  she  said,  in  the  lowest 
whisjjer,  while  the  hand  of  Geraldine  touched 
hers,  "  how  very  ill  you  look!  surely  you 
should  not  be  here." 

But  Geraldine  withdrew  her  fingers,  and 
for  answer  gave  a  flashing  defiance  from  her 
troubled  eye,  such  a  glance  as  might  shoot 
from  the  eye  of  the  dove  when  it  saw  the 
hawk  descending  on  its  brood.  She  was  so 
thin  that,  but  for  her  symmetry,  she  could 
not  have  appeared  in  the  dress  evening  so- 
ciety demands. 

"  And  why  was  she  there  ?  "  thought  the 
lady  —  why,  above  all  things,  had  Diamid 
brought  her  to  a  party  at  a  publisher's,  not 
even  his  own  publisher's  either,  whom  to 
conciliate  on  his  own  account,  it  had  ceased 
to  he  needful  years  and  years  before  ? " 
Meantime,  while  she  wondered,  while  Geral- 
dine dealt  her  scorning  gaze,  and  Diamid 
looked  intentionally  unmeaning  at  them 
both,  Geraldi,  Avhom  nobody  observed, 
slipped  secretly  a  small  sealed  note  into  the 
hand  of  Rodomant,  whispering  curtly  that 
he  was  not  to  read  it  until  he  found  himself 
alone. 

If  Lady  Delucy  had  not  so  preoccupied 
herself  with  that  same  neophyte  of  hers,  she 
would  have  heard  that  every  one  in  the  room 
that  night  was  speaking  of  a  new  book, 
which  some  had,  some  had  not  read,  but  of 
which  all  who  had,  were  speaking  in  terms 
of  wonder  and  curiosity,  which  decided 
those  who  had  not — even  those  who  never 
read  any  thing,  and  those  who,  reading  every 
thing,  have  time  for  nothing,  to  "  get  it,"  as 
they  would  have  said,  directly.  The  pub- 
lisher was  the  only  person,  who  for  reasons 
of  his  own,  held  his  tongue  on  the  subject. 
The  manuscript  had  been  dropped  into  the 
letter-box  of  his  house  of  business,  after 
business  hours  ;  the  delicate  backward  writ- 
ing was  not  to  be  identified,  and  it  was 
made  a  free  gift  to  him,  on  condition  of  its 
immediate  production  by  the  press.  The 
man  (who  read  his  own  books  —  no  book- 
taster  for  him)  —  knew  when  he  had  read  a 
doz^n  i)ages,  that  to  publish  it  would  incur 
for  himself  no  risk.  Good  or  bad,  the  work 
of  creative  genius  or  morbid  imagination,  it 
was  enough  for  one  so  shrewd  that  such  a 
book  had  never  before  been  written  ;  the 
subject,  the  matter,  and  the  manner,  all  were 
new. 

Yet,  after  all,  what  was  this  fame  virgin- 
al? As  far  as  what  the  people  said — and 
an  evening  part}-  in  a  di-awing-room  is  a  fair 
7 


sample  of  the  great,  gay.  talking  w  ffld  — 
their  excitement  .md  its  expression  much 
resembled  those  invoked  by  a  new  mem- 
ber's maiden  speech  in  Parliament,  on  the 
night  it  is  uttered  —  and  forgotten.  Cheers 
in  surges,  volleys  of  hisses,  popguns  ot 
applause.  Every  one  who  knew  Albany 
M'ell  enough  to  dare  to  sjjeak  to  him,  asked 
him  whether  he  had  read  this  book ;  with- 
out equivocation  he  contrived  to  avoid  an 
answer  by  demanding  to  have  it  described. 
As  soon  as  each  speaker  left  his  side  he  stohs 
a  glance  at  Geraldine,  but  a  glance  whicli 
was  carefully  bereft  of  all  inquietude  or 
interest.  Ill  as  Lady  Delucy  had  thought 
her,  it  had  not  been  because  she  was  pale, 
for  a  narcotic,  which  was  to  her  young  con- 
stitution a  vivid  stimulus,  had  filled  her 
veins  with  fiery  life  and  her  cheeks  with 
fiery  color  —  her  brain  with  fiery  phantoms 
too.  This  brilliance  burned  itself  slowly 
out ;  she  was  pale  as  snow  in  twilight,  her 
eye  softened  languidly,  her  frame  drooped 
with  greater  lassitude.  The  man  of  wisdom 
and  experience  by  her  side,  he  who  had 
lived  so  long,  could  not  understand  this 
mood.  But,  in  truth,  the  glory  which 
Geraldine  had  created  for  herself,  the  halo 
which  in  clear,  contem])lative  solitude  she 
saw  around  her  own  fair  head,  faded  alto- 
gether in  that  artificial  light.  Each  trivial 
verdict  from  lips  of  the  frivolous  and  fash- 
ionable, took  out  of  her  some  portion  of  her 
])ride.  She  knew  not  how  it  was  ;  she  only 
knew  that  she  had,  as  it  were,  fallen  from 
heaven,  or  wakened  from  some  deep  Italian 
summer,  come  back  to  her  in  a  ha])py 
dream  of  sleep,  to  a  November  morning  of 
cold,  stifling  fog,  laden  with  snow  instead  of 
thunder.  She  herself  had  besought  Diamid 
to  take  her  where  there  would  be  the  best 
chance  for  her  to  hear  her  book  spotten  of. 
He  had  calculated  the  time,  and  just  a  week 
after  it  was  out,  before  the  reviews  began, 
he  did  take  her,  certainly  to  the  most  likely 
place.  Nor  had  her  desires  been  disa]i- 
pointed.  She  had  not  only  heard  it  spokevi 
of,  but  discussed  ;  if  much  dispraised,  also 
violently  approved.  Therefore,  he  under- 
stood not,  for  the  first  time,  Geraldine. 
When  he  had  heard  his  first  work  spoken  of 
he  had  been  excited,  enchanted,  satisfied. 
He  did  not  know  that  it  was  not  only  the 
difference  of  sex,  distinctly  defined,  as  it  is 
not  always,  between  himself  and  her,  but 
the  difference  between  Geraldine  and  others 
of  her  own  sex,  particularly  the  class  author- 
esque  of  Avomen.  For,  say  what  men  will 
of  them,  and  women  can  say  for  themselves, 
there  are  very  few  feminine  writers  who  are 
intensely,  and  to  the  heart  of  hearts,  physi- 
cally and  morally,  perfect  feminine  natures. 
In  their  lives,  their  loves,  their  marrages 
as  wives  and  mothers,  how  many  of  them 
are  ideals  of  womanhood,  whom  an  ideal 
nature  among  men  would  long  to  clasp  as 
his  own.f*    At  the  same  time,  it  is  true,  thai 


50 


RUMOR. 


there  are  many  women  so  intensely  femi- 
nine, that  they  would  not  write,  to  publish, 
if  they  could,  too  proud,  because  too  wise, 
to  expose  their  feelings  to  a  world  made  up 
of  persons  with  whom  they  neither  hold 
communion  nor  have  sympathy.  But  such 
a  case  as  a  woman  thus  intensely  feminine, 
thus  proud  and  modest,  betraying  herself  to 
the  world  in  her  writings,  is  an  exception, 
and  one  in  the  whole  world  the  most  rare. 
For  such  must  be  her  innocence  of  the 
world  even  if  in  it,  such  her  ideal  condition 
a.".ik(;  of  thought  and  feeling,  that  she  thinks 
not  of  it  as  it  is,  nor  feels  'for  individuals  as 
they  are,  necessarily  and  happily,  all  unlike 
herself.  Let  none  envy  the  exceptional, 
those  whose  fate  it  is  to  weave  rainbows 
into  the  awful  web  of  being,  whose  fathom- 
less heart-springs  brim  the  fountains  of 
imagination  with  eternal  freshness,  while 
the  dream-flowers  nurtured  by  that  fresh- 
ness only  bloom  to  die.  It  is  no  characteris- 
tic, no  destiny  to  be  coveted  by  the  selfish 
for  themselves,  or  by  parents  loving  and 
unselfish,  for  their  children.  If  these  ex- 
ceptional beings  are  weak  or  false  to  their 
own  estimates  —  if  on  the  least  scrutiny  a 
flaw  is  found,  then  they  do  evil  in  this  evil 
world.  If  they  are  strong,  and  pure,  and 
shrink  not  to  declare  that  they  know  —  oay, 
all  the  more  if  their  mind's  history  is  a  page 
clean  as  drifted  snow  —  then  must  they 
endure  to  the  end,  perhaps  find  that  end  th.e 
martyr's  fate  without  his  fame. 

Geraldine  was  born  a  poetess.  None, 
save  the  trees,  whose  still  stateliness  shaded 
her,  the  silent  statues,  and  flowers  lovely 
enough  to  inspire  for  each  blossom  a  new- 
made  song,  had  been  audience  to  her  wild 
improvisations.  Doubtless,  finer  images,  more 
delicate  phrases,  sweeter  heart-confessions, 
more  melodious  eloquence,  dropped  from 
her  young  lips  in  those  hours  of  the  play- 
time of  her  genius,  than  distilled  from  the 
pages  of  her  first  essa)-  at  English  composi- 
tion. As  for  her  pleasure  in  writing,  it  was 
just  what  every  one  experiences  in  doing 
what  they  do  most  naturally.  As  for  hei- 
ambition,  it  was  but  the  reflex  of  her  hus- 
band's —  the  ambition,  not  to  do  a  thing  for 
its  own  sake,  or  for  love's  sake  —  sweeter 
still ;  but  that,  others,  and  as  many  others  as 
possible,  may  approve,  applaud,  perhaps 
envy.  But  just  as  she  adopted  all  his  politi- 
cal views  without  understanding  them,  all 
his  opinions  of  men  she  had  ever  seen,  all 
his  verdicts  of  books  she  had  never  opened 
—  so  *it  was  enough  for  him  to  say  he  desired 
her  to  be  a  famous  woman,  to  make  her  de- 
sire aid  determine  to  be  one — yea,  with  a 
disea^ed  and  raging  desire,  like  the  fever 
after  ii  oculation. 

Befoie  we  know  ourselves,  God  knows  us  ; 
and  when  that  shock  of  self-knowledge 
comes,  and  but  for  Him  we  should  be  alone, 
we  have  His  sympathy.  Blessings  never  suf- 
ficiently appreciated,  that  of  the  isolation  of 


each  soul,  at  certain  times,  which  the  more  il 
divides  us  from  each  other,  the  more  it 
draws  us  to  the  love  of  Him,  from  whom  we 
can  hide  nothing.  As  Geraldine  felt  that 
night  she  was  for  the  first  time  divided  from 
her  husband,  he  understood  not  the  disap- 
pointment which  had  fallen  on  her  hopes  a 
blight ;  her  idol,  for  the  first  time,  was  in- 
sufficient, as  all  idols  are  at  last.  Then  for 
the  first  time,  too,  her  soul  realized  its 
Maker.  Neither  as  sadness  nor  joj*,  trouble 
nor  triumph,  came  that  real  conception — it 
was  quiet  as  the  echo  of  a  still,  small  voice. 
Oh !  divine  dawn  of  faith,  which  is  neither 
the  hour  of  baptism,  nor  the  first-lisped 
affirmative  of  the  creed  Christian,  nor  the 
day  when  the  parental  conscience  is  released 
by  the  Church  from  the  responsibility  of 
the  child's  salvation ;  but  the  instant,  a 
space  that  cannot  be  reckoned  in  time  — 
when  the  soul  feels  its  need  of  God,  and 
finds  that  need  destroyed  forever  by  His 
presence  —  before  he  called  He  answered  it. 
If  Lady  Uelucy  had  possessed  any  worldly 
pride,  it  would  have  received  many  a  sharp 
side-thrust,  and  many  a  rankling  sting  from 
the  style  in  which  she  had  been  treated  ever 
since  her  husband's  death.  Nobody  ever 
forgot  she  had  been  an  actress  —  people 
took  care  to  show  that  the  respect  they  paid 
was  to  her  rank,  not  to  her  —  while  to  her 
character  they  condescended.  A  woman 
whose  mother  had  fallen,  is  not  judged  so 
severely  by  half.  Yet  it  is  not  exactly  the 
fault  of  each  person  who  so  conducts  him- 
self that  so  he  acts ;  it  is  the  absolute  im- 
possibility for  those  who  cai'e  supremely 
about  wealth,  and  secondarily,  about  social ' 
position,  to  assimilate  Avith  the  personality 
of  artists.  When  Lady  Delucy,  therefore, 
was  asked,  as  a  private  individual,  to  sing, 
it  was  rather- as  though  she  were  commanded 
(having  been  prepaid)  to  do  so.  ^She  cared 
for  none  of  this  treatment  —  it  afflicted  her 
not,  and  she  always  did  her  best  in  every 
company,  loving  art  so  dearly,  that  it  was  a 
pleasure  of  which  she  never  wearied  to  lend 
it  even  the  least  and  most  partial  interpreta- 
tion. So  being  asked  to  sing  by  the  wife  of 
the  host,  a  young  woman  who  was  accus- 
tomed to  sit  with  her  feet  on  the  fendt-.r,  and 
give  her  opinion  upon  the  manuscripts  of 
master-writers,  and  who  thought  herself  a 
genius  because  she  did  so.  Lady  Delucy 
ascended  calmly,  and  asked  Rodomant  to 
accompany  her.  Most  exquisite  was  the 
accompaniment  which  bore  the  exquisite 
voice  on  its  melodious  ripple,  and  mild  as 
sunshine  with  a  southern  breeze  seemed  the 
player's  mood.  People  stared,  of  course,  to 
see  that  the  lady  did  not  accompany  herself, 
as  she  had  ever  done  before,  and  little  imps 
of  suspicion  glanced  at  each  other  from  eye 
to  eye,  more  especially  as  this  strange  person 
had  never  left,  the  whole  evening,  the  side 
of  the  lady  who  had  the  reputation  for  doing 
I  the  strangest  things.     As  for  Geraldine,  the 


RUMOR. 


51 


only  person  present  who  did  not  connect  the 
lady  with  the  player  for  an  instant,  she  ex- 
perienced a  mortification,  bitter  even  after 
all  the  bitterness  of  the  hour,  in  seeing  that 
l^iamid  drank  down  the  music,  seemed  to 
hang-  upon  the  voice,  and  was  evidently 
soothed  by  both,  as  it  was  seldom  he  was 
quieted  by  any  thing.  How,  thought  she, 
in  her  passionate  impatience  forgetting  that 
for  him,  by  any  and  all  means,  she  coveted 
above  all  things,  rest  —  how  could  he  listen, 
attend  to  any  thing,  think  of  any  thing,  but 
me  to-night?  He  was  thinking,  she  could 
not,  as  a  woman,  dream  how  deeply,  wildly, 
with  what  wondering  and  wistful  tenderness 
he  was  thinking  only  of  her,  and  that  deli- 
cate renown  of  hers  Mhich,  to  his  worship- 
ping appreciation,  it  seemed  must  be  sullied 
by  being  questioned  or  even  admitted.  He 
was  lost  in  a  transport  of  melancholy  love, 
which  would  have  drowned  him  in  tears  in 
the  hard-fticed  presence  of  that  fashionable 
company,  if  it  had  not  been  for  the  sweet 
sustaining  presence  of  the  woman  who  had 
been,  all  life,  his  kindest  and  most  faithful 
friend  ;  therefore  his  eyes  rested  on  her  eyes, 
not  on  those  which  were  his  only  heaven, 
and  therefore  he  inclined  his  ear  to  the  lull- 
ing measure  of  her  voice. 

Every  one  listened  now  —  so  refined,  yet 
genial,  was  the  strain  —  not  too  exalted  for 
the  hour,  nor  pandering  in  a  single  note  to 
the  vicious  taste  of  the  vulgar,  as  musicians 
named  honorable  have  often  abased  them- 
selves to  do.  The  hostess,  who  was  charmed 
to  see  that  no  one  looked  dull,  though  there 
had  been  no  dancing,  waited  impatiently  till 
the  third  song  was  ended,  and  Rodomant 
refused  to  play  any  more  accompaniments 
lest  the  songstress  should  be  fatigued,  and 
then  went  up  to  him,  and  very  imprudently 
asked  him  to  play  by  himself.  To  her  hor- 
ror, and  every  one's  surprise,  except  Lady 
Delucy's,  he  scowled,  turned  his  back  upon 
her,  and  ran,  rather  than  walked  out  of  the 
room.  Lady  Delucy,  as  soon  as  she  could 
speak  without  laughing,  made  her  most 
graceful  apology  for  his  behavior,  and  took 
all  blame  to  herself,  because  she  had  in- 
formed no  one  of  his  assurance  to  her  be- 
forehand, that  he  would  do  as  he  had  done, 
if  requested  by  any  person  except  herself, 
to  play.  The  apology,  received  ungrace- 
fully enough,  at  least  had  the  effect  of  mak- 
ing all  persons  talk,  so  that  no  dulness 
returned  upon  the  room,  not  to  mention  the 
renewed  sparkle  of  suspicion  in  many  bril- 
liant eyes.  The  most  briUiant  eyes  of  all, 
however,  sparkled  with  their  own  light  only; 
those  eyes  belonged  to  the  rose  of  all  the 
seasons.  She  had  no  time  nor  patience  for 
suspicion  on  such  a  hackneyed  subject  as 
the  eccentricity  of  Lady  Delucy,  but  the  only 
passion  she  possessed  even  in  counterfeit,  was 
a  more  than  Athenian  mania  for  whatever 
happened  to  be  new  —  except,  and  a  some- 
what wide  exception,  too,  in  Art  —  her  ab- 


solute ignorance  of  which  was  in  twin  pro 
portion  to  her  absolute  indifference  to  it. 

Tims  Scrannel,  who  always  talked  to  her 
when  he  met  her  —  not  going  after  her,  for 
she  always  alighted,  butterlly-like,  at  his 
elbow  —  took  care  to  avoid  the  slightest,  col- 
lision with  artistic  subjects  in  his  discourses  ; 
his  tact  made  such  avoidance  easy,  and  his 
great  talents  provided  him  with  topics  for 
every  taste.  That  he  admired  this  Helen 
Jordan  very  much,  was  evident  —  that  she 
liked  him  to  admire  her,  more  so  ;  and  silly 
as  she  was,  there  was  between  them  a  kind 
of  pact,  that  she  would  help  him  in  discov- 
eries that  he  was  unusually  dull,  and  she  un- 
usually capable  in  making.  Just  as  half-wits, 
persons  of  incomplete  mental  development, 
and  uneducated  servants,  make  the  most 
sentient  somnambules,  so  this  foolish  beauty 
had  a  sort  of  instinct  Avhich  led  her  to  divine 
secrets,  and  ineloquent  as  were  her  means 
of  speech,  she  could  worm  from  the  innocent 
truths  which  they  had  sworn  to  bury  with 
their  bodies  in  tlie  grave,  unguessed.  This 
same  evening  she  had  fiuttered  to  Tims 
Scrannel,  which  whipper-in  looked  crosser 
and  more  crabbed  than  ever,  and  arching 
her  brows  at  his  face,  had  said, — 

"  I  will  bet  you  any  thing,"  —  the  all-sea- 
soned rose  talked  slang  wherever  it  could 
be  brought  in.  "  I  will  bet  you  any  thing 
that  I  know  what  you  are  thinking  of." 

"  You  would  be  too  modest  to  confess," 
and  he  snarled  a  smile.  "  You  have  never 
spoken  to  me  to-night,"  he  added. 

"  I  have  had  no  time ;  my  ears  ache  with 
the  dinning  repetition  of  '  Who  wrote  Vir- 
gilia  ? '  and  my  tongue  aches  with  protest- 
ing I  do  not  know.  Yoii,  too,  have  been 
wondering,  I  know,  but  you  would  not  ask 
lest  any  one  should  say,  'He  does  not 
know.' " 

"  I  confess,  alone  to  you,  I  cannot  find 
out,  and  I  want  you  to  help  me.  My  con- 
science will  not  suffer  me  to  review  a  book, 
especially  one  so  low  in  standard  as  a  novel, 
without  knowing,  at  least,  who  its  aut  lor  is  ; 
whether  an  immature,  or  an  experienced 
person,  man  or  woman  —  all  should  be  con- 
sidered first." 

"  Suppose  I  cannot  find  out,  this  time  ?  "' 

"  It  will  be  your  first  failure,  and  vty  faith 
will  not  allow  that  you  can  fail." 

"  Nor  mine  ;  but  I  must  have  time  —  how 
long  will  you  give  me  ?  " 

"  Six  weeks,  or  two  months  at  the  far- 
thest ;  we  shall  then  see  how  the  other 
papers  take  it  up." 

"  Secure  that,  you  can  cast  it  down 
in  face  of  them  all,  except  the  Times." 

"  The  Times  will  not  dare  to  speak  till  I 
have  spoken." 

Lady  Delucy  had  not  yet  read,  this  book  ; 
she  read  few  novels,  having  too  refined  a 
taste  and  too  fixed  habits  of  study.  But 
while  Geraldi  was  talking  to  Geraldine  in 
Italian,  having  drawn  her  aside,  just  after 


52 


RUMOR. 


Rodomant  had  left  the  room,  Albany  came 
to  his  friend,  and  asked  her,  as  a  favor  to 
him,  to  read  it;  She  promised  in  the  fewest 
words,  and  then  seriously  addressed  him  on 
tlie  subject  of  Geraldiue's  changed  appear- 
ance. She  knew  much  of  illness,  if  little 
of  disease,  and  she  was  very  im])ressive Mith 
him  in  urging  him  to  obtain  advice  for  Ger- 
aidine.  But  Diamid,  who,  the  least  of  all 
her  charms  cared  for  her  mere  youthful 
bloom,  and  who  had  been  pale  himself  and 
thill  his  whole  life  long,  could  not  interpret 
those  signs,  but  as  the  natural  and  necessary 
coiisequence  of  perfected  intellectual  devel- 
opment, and  intensified  spiritual  existence  — 
these  truly  were  so  clearly  marked  in  Geral- 
dine,  that  it  was  scarcely  surprising  they  dis- 
guised from  him  her  actual  suffering.  He 
remarked,  also,  that  she  slept  mcU  ;  he  was 
a  watcher  himself,  and  had  known  none  but 
iier\ous  nights  ever  since  he  remembered 
any  thing  ;  he  knew  not  that  she  procured 
sleep  with  the  most  stealthy  and  dangerous 
of  narcotics,  which  indeed  her  physical  con- 
dition, untampered  with  by  doctors,  and 
uncharged  with  drugs,  enabled  her  to  absorb 
with  equal  facility  as  an  excitant  or  a  seda- 
tive. Her  various  Italian  reading,  wholly 
unsuited  to  a  child,  had  taught  'her  many 
things  which  she  had  better  not  have  known, 
tlie  occult  "  little "  knowledge  which  is  so 
dangerous;  and  to  execute  her  least  desire 
in  secret,  she  had  a  slave,  Geraldi,  who 
would  have  procured  her  poison  if  she  had 
required  it,  on  the  sole  condition  that  he 
might  swallow  it  with  her. 

'i'iie  longer  and  more  earnestly,  mater- 
nally, Lady  Helucy  talked,  the  more  deter- 
mined seemed  her  listener  to  treat  the  sub- 
ject of  their  discourse  as  a  supposititious 
evil.  In  fact,  as  she  soon  saw  with  sorrow, 
he  adored  so  blindly,  wilHngly,  that  he  could 
not,  because  he  would  not,  see  the  truth, 
and  this  excessive  passion  alarmed  her  as 
well  as  saddened.  So  unselfish  was  she, 
that  she  dwelt  not  on  the  fact  to  which  a 
delicate  woman  must  be  most  sensitive,  that 
this  blind  worship,  this  fixed  idolatry,  was  as 
far  beyond  what  he  had  professed  or  shown 
to  her,  as  the  unfailing  star-shine  is  above 
the  fading  flower-gleam.  She  only  trembled 
for  the  victims,  both,  of  a  love  which  so 
absorbed  each  for  the  other  that  there  blent 
not  in  their  married  hearts  one  yearning 
after  a  higher  union,  that  eternal  embrace 
which,  for  the  pure,  a  parting  must  precede. 
Still  her  memory  of  her  OAvn  devotion,  single 
love,  and  self-appointed  loneliness,  may 
have  mingled  its  own  melancholy  with  the 
melancholy  of  her  present  thoughts.  When 
she  was  going  home  alone,  she  mused  still 
on  the  past  till  the  present  was  a  dream,  and 
the  future  seemed  annihilated,  not  to  come 
—  a  frame  in  which  we  seem  at  a  stand-still  ; 
who  has  not  experienced  it  ?  Arrived  at 
hrime,  she  found  her  house  in  darkness  ;  she 
asKed  for  her  daughter.     Elizabeth  had  gone 


to  bed,  so  said  the  man  who  inquired  of  hei 
maid ;  it  was  true  that  Elizabeth  had  sent 
the  maid  away,  but  only  that  she  might  have 
time  to  write  an  "  appendix  "  to  her  volume 
of  foreign  post.  Lady  Helucy  was  still 
down  stairs,  when  one  of  the  servants,  ad- 
vancing humbly,  but  pale  with  some  myste- 
rious fright,  said  under  his  voice,  and  peeping 
all  around  as  he  spoke,  —  "  the  German 
gentleman  is  here,  and  he  said  he  was  r.ot  to 
go  till  he  had  seen  your  ladyship  —  he  has 
been  here  these  two  hours." 

In  fact,  Rodomant  had  gone  straight  to 
her  house  instead  of  to  his  own  lodgings  — 
where  then  was  his  pride  ?  Alas,  there  is 
only  one  power  stronger  in  the  mind  of  man, 
and  that  she  knew.  This  fact  surprised  and 
perplexed  her,  but  did  not  make  her  afraid,  as 
it  did  her  household,  who  now  more  than 
ever  convicted,  clung  to  the  fact  of  his  in- 
sanity, and  held  as  for  aloof  as  possible. 
She  went  up  stairs,  quietly,  wearily,  little  fit 
for  any  kind  of  spiritual  or  mental  conflict, 
yet  ready  to  meet  whatever  encountered  her 
courage  or  her  will.  He  rose  on  seeing  her, 
and  bowed.  She  hoped  for  a  moment  he  had 
but  waited  to  say  good-night,  and  held  out 
her  hand,  with  farewell  on  her  lips,  which 
melted  unbreatbed  betM'een  them,  howev- 
er ;  for  he  advanced  quickly,  looking  full 
into  her  eyes  with  an  expression  —  sweet, 
entreating,  but  imperious — an  expression 
which  made  her  fear.  Far  rather  would 
she  have  met  the  furtive  glow  of  madness, 
smouldering  to  quick  eruption,  than  that 
fine,  living  fire  which  burned  without  con- 
suming. 

An  ordinary  mind  impassioned  excites  an 
interest  which  none  of  its  medium  moods 
could  rouse  ;  but,  in  the  passion  of  genius 
there  is  something  awful  ;  we  are  aff"ected  bv 
it  even  in  its  errant  and  earthly  frames  ; 
we  weep  over  its  sins  as  over  the  woes  of 
ordinary  men.  Here,  the  soul  as  yet  was 
pure,  the  temper  of  the  being  keen,  untar- 
nished. The  lady,  vvhose  single,  pure,  and  yet 
passing  preference  for  one  man,  had  given 
her  discrimination  which  otherwise  her  great 
personal  reserve  would  have  denied  her,  un- 
derstood every  phase  of  passion,  from  the 
new  or  invisible,  and  the  crescent,  ever  ex- 
panding, to  the  full-orbed  and  irrepressible, 
raining  down  its  glory  on  every  thing  and 
being,  base  or  beautiful  —  but  all  transfigured 
in  the  loveHness  of  the  one.  But  she  had 
yet  to  learn  that,  for  some  rare  natures,  the 
dawn  of  passion  is  as  the  Oriental  sunrise 
— •  there  is  no  perceptible  twihght ;  the  sun 
flames  up  suddenly,  his  fire  pure,  his  heaven 
undefiled  by  mist  —  so  sudden,  vivid,  was 
the  rising  of  this  passion  on  her  perception. 
No  marvel  that  from  its  power  her  gentle 
nature  shrank. 

"  I  shall  not  go  yet,"  he  said,  with  perfect 
respect  in  his  manner,  yet  in  a  voice  which 
just  betrayed  the  light  sharj)  tone  of  audacity 
which  a  powerful  mind  adopts  when  passion 


RUMOR. 


53 


IS  excited.  "Where  a  small  mind  would  cringe 
and  fawn,  that  perhaps  as  exaggeratedly  ex- 
pands. "  I  shall  not  go  yet,  and  you  are 
very  ungrateful,  lady,  to  wish  to  send  me 
away  —  for  you  do ;  I  read  that  in  your  eyes 

—  and  I  have  to  sing  your  song ;  you  could 
forget  that.  You  have  heard  nothing  to- 
night so  sweet,  so  loving,  so  exquisitely 
beautiful.  But  I  can  sing  it  best  at  night, 
or  farly,  early  morning.  It  will  soon  be 
day,  and  the  birds  will  wake,  and,  perhaps, 
I  then  shall  be  afraid.  But  now  the  world 
sleeps,  and  while  it  lets  you  alone,  your  heart 
left  to  itself,  will  listen  for  wnat  1  shall  make 
it  hear." 

"  Sing  then,"  said  the  lady.  "  Sing  your 
song  once,  and  then  I  must  leave  you,  for  I 
am  tired,  and  so  should  you  be,  and_  j,re, 
though,  at  your  age,  fatigue  di?guises  itself 
in  excitement,  which  is  more  tempting  than 
sleep.  Sing  now,  and  I  will  listen,  but  not 
to  one  word  afterwards." 

"  Perhaps  you  will  not  send  me  away 
when  you  have  heard.  Here  is  your  song, 
and  when  I  am  dead,  it  will  still  wear  the 
crown  of  songs,  and  go  hand  in  hand  with 
your  name  forever." 

"Poor  Kodomant,"  she  thought;  "names 
on  title-pages  are  waste  words  on  waste- 
paper  Avith  the  mob.     How  simple  !  " 

Slowly  and  reluctantly  he  left  her  side, 
still  turning  his  head  towards  her.  He  sat 
down  languidly.  He  scarcely  brushed  the 
keys  with  the  chords  of  the  symphony.  But 
the  voice  rose,  as  if  to  break  all  barriers 
down,  to  quell  all  reason,  to  quench  despair 

—  strong,  shrill,  yet  painfully  sweet  from 
the  strict  correctness  of  the  ear.  It  made 
the  hearer  "  thi-ill  with  wofulness." 


In  gardens  where  the  languid  roses  keep 
Perpetual  sweetness  for  the  hearts  that  smile, 
Perpetual  sadness  for  the  hearts  that  weep, 
Lonely,  unseen  I  wander,  to  beguile 
The  day  that  only  shines  to  show  thee  bright, 
The  night  whose  stars  burn  wan  beside  thy  light. 
Adelaida ! 

Adelaida  !  all  the  birds  are  singing 
Low,  as  thou  passest,  where  in  leaves  they  lie  ; 
With  timid  ohirp  unto  their  soft  mates  clinging, 
They  greet  that  presence  without  which  they  die  — 
Die,  even  with  Nature's  universal  heart, 
When  thoi,  her  queen,  dost  in  thy  pride  depart. 
Adelaida  ! 

Depart !  and  dim  her  beauty  evermore  — 
Go,  from  the  shivering  leaves  and  lily  flowers, 
That,  white  as  saints  on  the  eternal  shore, 
Stand  wavering,  beckoning,  in  the  moony  bowers ; 
Beckon  me  on  where  their  mnist  feet  are  laid 
In  the  dark  mould,  fast  by  the  alder  shade. 

Adelaida  ! 

Adelaida  !  'tis  the  Grave  or  Love 

Must  fight  for  this  great  first,  last  mastery. 

I  feed  in  faith  on  spicy  gales  above. 

Where  all  along  that  blue,  unchanging  sky 

Thy  name  is  traced  —  its  sweetness  never  fails 

To  sound  in  streams  of  peace,  in  spicy  gales. 

Adelaida  ! 


Adelaida  !  woe  is  me,  woe,  woe  ! 

Not  only  in  the  sky,  in  starry  gold, 

I  see  thy  name  —  where  peaceful  rivers  flow, 

Not  only  hear  its  sweetness  manifold; 

On  every  white  and  purple  flower  'tis  written  — 

Its  echo  every  aspen-quake  hath  smitten. 

Adelaida'. 

Go  farther  !  let  me  leave  thee  !     I  depart,  — 
Who  whispered  I  would  linger  by  thy  side  } 
Who  said  it  beat  so  warm,  my  feeble  heart  ? 
Who  told,  I  dared  to  claim  thee  as  my  bride  ? 
Who  cried,  I  roamed  without  thee  all  the  day 
And  clasped  thee  in  my  dreams  ?  — away,  aw^.v  ! 
Adelaida. 

I  die,  but  thou  shalt  live  ;  in  the  loud  noon 
Thy  feet  shall  crush  the  long  grass  o'er  my  head, 
Not' rudely,  rudely  —  gently   gently,  soon 
Shall  tread  me  heavier  down  in  that  dark  bed, 
And  thou  shalt  know  not  on  whose  head  they  pass, 
Those  silent  hands,  whose  frozen  heart !  —  Alas, 
Adelaida  ! 


He  rose  and  approached  her.  Surely  his 
own  despair  must  have  been  carried  out  of 
him  in  the  despair  of  the  last  verse,  or  that 
triumphant  brightness  could  not  have  been 
kindled  on  his  countenance.  Appalled,  but 
with  unerring  impulse,  the  lady  held  out 
both  her  hands.  That  gesture  of  queenly 
calm,  and  -the  intense  gaze  of  her  serene 
eyes,  Avhich  showed  neither  emotion  nor  en- 
couragement, kept  him  back,  but  abashed 
him  not — he  was  yet  too  pure  to  be  abashed. 
Only  a  dread  desolation,  one  cold  and  rigid* 
covered  his  features,  so  lately  relaxed  and 
brilliant,  with  hope  that  was  too  childishly 
like  certainty. 

"  It  is  a  beautiful  song,"  said  the  lady,  in 
very  distinct  tones,  "  but  not  written  for  any 
one  in  particular ;  it  is  a  poet's  song,  and 
adaptive.  1  have  known  the  words  all  ray 
life,  or  rather  its  form  in  German,  but  I 
never  heard  them  really  interpreted  till  now. 
Again,  I  say,  it  is  a  poet's  song." 

"  Adaptive !  not  written  for  any  one  in 
particular  !  "  he  exclaimed,  in  tones  of  scorn 
that  annihilated  weakness.  "  You  will  kill 
me,  then  !  "  But,  could  death  have  ])ower 
upon  the  strength  that  vitalized  those  ac- 
cents ?  He  trembled,  but  it  seemed  rather 
with  indignation  than  with  sorrow.  "  I  am 
to  die,  then,  before  my  time." 

"  To  live  long,  honored  and  famous,  and 
])erhaps  loved.  But  not  now  that,  not  yet. 
You  have  not  suffered  enough,  and  perhaps 
your  pride  will  never  allow  you  to  sutler 
enough,  to  deserve  that  blessing." 

"  From  yon  such  words !  So  much  for 
women :  they  are  all  alike,  except  in  fice  and 
form.  You  profess  to  care  nothing  for  the 
world,  yet  you  are  worldly,  for  you  will  not 
give  up  the  many  for  the  one.  You  pretend 
to  think  meanly  of  those  who  cannot  feel  — 
yet  the  one  who  feels  the  most  you  despise. 
t  alone  could  make  you  happy  —  for  I  alone 
should  love  you  as  you  deserve.  You  are 
not  happy,  —  I  have  watched  you,  you  are  on 
the  contrary  miserable,  miserable  in  yom 
complete  and  wilful  loneliness." 


54 


RUMOR. 


That  it  was  his  ^-sl,  forced  and  premature 
bloom  of  passion,  she  knew  well.  Nothing 
else  is  so  rash,  inconsequent,  so  involuntary 
a  seizure  of  the  faculties  —  therein  blends 
the  sublime  and  the  absurd,  M'ill  and  whim 
are  then  confused.  In  ordinary  cases,  this 
is  the  time  of  schoolboy  and  schoolgirl  senti- 
ment, born  of  fanCy  and  fed  on  folly  —  the 
time  of  valentines  and  moonshine  vows,  the 
stretching  of  spell-imprisoned  childhood  to- 
»vards  youth  —  for  common  natures  their 
only  ideal  time  —  for  the  ideal  their  only 
vulgar  experience.  Had  this  ca.^e  been  an 
ordinary  one,  Lady  Delucy  would  have  had 
little  mercy  for  the  subject  of  it — she  had 
but  lectured  him  soundly,  and  forbidden 
him  her  presence.  But  so  gentle,  so  gener- 
ous, was  her  sympathy  with  genius,  that  she 
longed  to  turn  its  first  disappointment  to  its 
permanent  advantage.  She  was  far  too  gen- 
erous for  displeasure,  too  gentle  for  annoy- 
ance —  perhaps  too  proud  —  but  not  with 
earthly  pride,  for  she  did  not  dwell  a  single 
instant  on  the  difference  between  their  social 
ranks.  Had  his  pride,  whether  earthly  or 
spiritual,  sufficed  to  bear  him  in  a  whirlwind 
from  her  presence,  she  had  not  needed  to 
explain  her  deprecation  of  his  assumptive 
mood.  But  his  pride,  far  from  being  too 
little,  was  too  great  to  suffer  him  to  go,  to 
,allow  himself  vanquished  ;  he  yet  remained, 
and  daringly,  vividly  regarded  her. 

"  I  Avill  tell  you  something,"  she  said, 
averting  her  eyes  from  those  that  searched 
her  face.  "  I  will  tell  you  something  of  my- 
self, because  I  perceive  that  it  would  be  ut- 
terly useless  to  dwell  on  the  fact,  in  which  I 
believe,  and  you  do  not,  that  you  are  but 
anticipating  your  future  hopes  and  happiness 
in  an  uneasy,  troubled  dream.  The  more  I 
spoke  of  1/ou,  the  less  you  would  respect  me 

—  you  might  think  me  a  hypocrite  and 
worldly,  too,  but  ni)thing  could  convince  you 
I  am  speaking  the  truth  from  my  heart,  and 
that  I  long  to  leave  this  world  entirely  — 
long  as  I  only  long  besides,  for  heaven. 
Listen,  then,  to  what  I  say.  Should  not  a 
woman  be  faithful  to  her  love,  as  to  her  duty  ? 
I  have  loved  once,  and  do  love  still,  and  the 
person  I  love  is  out  of  my  reach  forever." 

"  I  do  not  believe  that  the  lord  your  hus- 
band, of  whom  you  speak  with  such  stern 
reverence,  ever  made  you  love  him." 

"  I  do  not  speak  of  him  now ;  but  from 
gratitude,  not  from  'stern  reverence'  —  for 
it  was  very  sweet  though  sad  —  from  grati- 
tude to  him  I  would  not  marry  another. 
This  was  a  vow,  made  before  Heaven  ;  I  kept 
it,  and  will  keep  it.  I  kept  it  in  the  hour  of 
temptation." 

"  What  was  your  temptation  ?  "  for  her 
voice  died  away. 

"  What  was  'it  ?  "  —  more  than  impatiently 

—  "  when  the  only  one  I  ever  loved  offered 
me  his  affection  and  a  home  with  him,  I  re- 
fused them  both.  How  can  I  acceptor  dream 
of  yours  ?     If  I  loved  none  other,  my  vow 


would  bind  me  ;  loving  another,  I  am  doublj 
bound.  Now,  having  said  this  of  myselfj 
what  I  never  breathed  before,  even  in  mj 
prayers  to  God,  you  will  listen  to  a  word 
about  yourself  It  would  not  be  for  your 
good,  present  or  future,  nor  for  your  happi- 
ness even  noic,  though  you  are  too  young  to 
know  that  —  nor  would  y(>ur  genius  ever 
find  its  wings,  so  burdened  —  burdened  with 
one  who  could  only  give  you  friendship." 

"  Who  is  the  man  you  love  ?  "  he  broke  in,  i 
inattentive  the  instant  she  returned  to  his  ' 
position,  and  in  a  voice  so  loud  and  clear, 
that  she  trembled  lest  the  servants  should  be 
at  hand  —  she  knew  that  some  of  them,  at 
least,  were  u]3.  He  paced  the  room,  swifter 
and  swifter  grew  his  strides,  at  last  he  came 
to  her  again,  and  stood  still  rigidly,  his  eyes 
flashing  at  shorter  and  shorter  intervals,  like 
the  lightnings  of  a  storm  that  gathers. 

"  I  implore  you,  do  not  ask  me,"  she 
pleaded,  in  a  voice  that  might  have  touched 
any  heart,  so  passionate  and  plaintive  was  it. 
It  had  upon  the  soul  in  its  storm,  no  more 
power  than  music  on  the  thunder  of  the 
clouds.  On  the  contrary,  her  tender  trouble 
excited  and  determined  him  more  wildly  still. 

"  I  will  not  go  till  you  have  told  me  ;  I  will 
know  his  name.  If  you  tell  me  not,  I  shall 
knoiv  that  you  are  false,  that  you  invented 
the  tale  to  be  rid  of  me  because  you  think 
me  poor,  beneath  you  ;  —  because  you  would 
be  ashamed." 

"  Hush  !  hush !  "  she  cried,  for  she  really 
heard  steps  —  her  daughter's  —  outside  the 
door ;  for  Elizabeth,  who  had  not  been  to 
bed  herself,  had  been  first  amazed  by  the  dis- 
tant sound  of  singing  at  that  hour  in  the 
morning,  and  then  more  decidedly  ])uzzled 
by  her  mother's  non-appearance  after  that 
sound  had  ceased.  The  lady  joined  her 
hands,  half  wrung  them.  "  My  daughter  is 
outside  ;  she  will  come  in  —  what  could  she 
think  ?  Consider  for  yourself,  if  not  for  me, 
and  go  ;   there  is  another  door." 

But  Rodomant  went  to  the  door  outside 
which  steps  were  heard,  and  bolted  it  —  re- 
turned to  her.  Her  courage  gave  way  be- 
neath his  will  and  her  own  fear.  She  lost 
her  pride  for  one  dread  moment,  or  lost  its 
consciousness  —  it  swooned.  What  could  it 
matter,  if  he  knew?  —  besides,  lawless  as  he 
professed  himself,  she  had  entire  faith  in  his 
natural  honor  and  nobility.  Again  and  again 
he  urged  her,  for  he  marked  well  her  relent- 
ing weakness. 

"  Some  one  you  saw  to-night  —  last  night," 
she  murmured. 

"  That  will  not  do,"  he  stamped — impe- 
riously he  added,  "  there  was  not  one  my 
equal  there." 

"  I  never  said  he  was  your  equal  —  I  do 
not  care  for  you,"  she  answered,  the  swoon 
spent  and  the  pride  awakening  half-delirious. 
"  It  is  Diamid  Albany,  and  will  that  make 
you  wiser  ?  I  think  not,  for  how  should 
such  as  you  know  liim  ?  "     She  opened  the 


RUMOR. 


55 


door  —  the  oilier  dnor,  of  which  she  had 
epokeii.  threw  it  wide  :  then,  just  then,  there 
was  a  low  knock  which  she  knew  to  be  Eliz- 
abeth's, at  the  door  which  he  had  bolted. 
To  thi«  door  she  ilew,  unbolted  it  without  a 
sound,  and  opened  it —  Elizabeth  entered  — 
he  was  fairly  driven  forth,  for  he  disliked 
her,  a  fact  her  mother  knew.  He  did  not 
even  bow,  but  turned  and  fled.  Yet  his  ear, 
piercingly  and  painfully  sensitive,  caught 
their  mutual  greeting. 

"  I  am  glad  you  came,"  said  the  lady,  "  for 
he  has  been  singing  his  own  songs,  and  it  is 
always  difficult  to  dismiss  him  then." 

"  Mamma,  you  spoil  him,"  said  Elizabeth. 
He  lieard  no  more,  that  was  enough,  he  did 
not  see  the  glance  the  daughter  cast  ujjon 
the  mother,  half-amazed  and  half-distrusting, 
nor  the  expression  that  overcast  the  mother's 
face,  half  sad,  half  shamed.  We  pity  the 
woman  Avho  marries  very  early,  without  a 
strong  preference  of  her  own  for  him  she 
marries.  For,  in  such  case,  she  may  have 
too  much  of  girlhood  to  hide  from  a  daugh- 
ter of  her  own. 

And  that  strange  nature,  did  it  wince  be- 
neath the  first  stroke  of  the  rod  of  discipline  ? 
Rodomant  hardened  his  heart  for  a  while,  by 
icing  over  its  fountains  with  cold  disdain,  be- 
neatJi  whose  crust  slept  self-contempt,  its 
surges  spell-bound  noM-,  but  sure  to  swell  up 
in  bitter  waters  as  soon  as  the  first  warm 
influence  or  kindly  breath  should  melt  the 
ice.  Such  a  nature  expects  all  it  thinks  it 
deserves,  when  new  to  life.  Probably  it  de- 
serves as  much  as  it  desires ;  but  do  the 
great,  the  good,  ever  receive  their  full  deserts 
in  this  short  life?  Do  any?  saving  only 
those,  unenvied  by  all  who  love  and  who 
aspire,  who  have  their  portion  in  and  of  this 
life  only.  From  the  gates  of  the  grave  falls 
the  shadow  of  Sin's  retribution  upon  this 
earth  ;  often  before  the  unworthy  and  erring 
reach  actual  death,  they  walk  in  that  deeper 
gloom.  But  the  retribution  of  the  pure  who 
suffer,  no  mortal  eye  shall  see ;  those  black 
portals  shut  in  the  light  ineff'able  ;  not  till 
they  are  oi)ened  can  the  glory  embrace,  which 
shall  thenceforth  sustain  their  souls. 


CHAPTER  Xin. 

In  ordinary  —  even  in  extraordinary  in- 
stances—  a  first  disappointment  of  sincere, 
if  presumptuous  hopes,  results  in  a  tempo- 
rary abandonment  of  the  soul  to  what,  in  its 
best  moods,  it  would  despise.  Lady  Delucy 
was  too  sagacious  to  fear  such  a  reaction  in 
this  case,  which  interested  her.  Just  as  the 
inferior  minds  sink  below  their  own  level, 
condescend  to  indulgence  which  degrades 
them,  a  great  mind  and  noble  nature  will 
rise  above  the  cii-cumstances  they  could  not 


control ;  they  may  ^^^-^xciternent,  must 
seek  occupation  to  chaSh^iine*'l)iit  it  is-, 
higher  excitement  they  need,"  and  they  find  it 
in  a  loftier  employ.  As  Rodomasit's  disdain 
melted,  his  pride  revived  ;  self-contempt 
surged  a  while,  but  pride,  so  much  the 
stronger,  calmed  that,  too,  and  left  him  (be- 
side himself)  nothing  but  the  honest,  if 
haughty  purpose  to  repay  his  benefactress 
the  uttermost  farthing  he  was  actually  in- 
debted to  her,  and  then  go  free.  She,  who 
as  a  woman,  failed  to  comprehend  his  mas- 
culine nature,  however  she  sympathized  with 
him  as  an  artist,  was  extremely  afraid  of  see- 
ing him  again,  that  he  would  come  rushing 
in  next  day,  audacious  as  usual,  and  then 
evermore  defiant.  When  the  next  day  passed 
without  his  eccentric  apparition,  she  rejoiced 
with  trembling  —  that  day  brought  no  Rodo- 
mant—  the  next,  woman-like,  she  was  half- 
curious,  and  half-relenting;  not  towards  his 
designs  and  desires,  but  towards  himself. 
On  the  fourth  day  she  sent  for  his  mother, 
M'hom  she  wished  to  take  into  the  country 
with  her,  that  she  might  superintend,  under 
her  own  eye,  the  large  trousseau  for  her 
daughter  —  not  a  quarter  yet  completed. 
Her  messenger  was  baffled,  both  the  mother 
and  son  had  left  their  lodging,  and  its  keeper 
knew  not  whither  they  had  gone.  So  Lady 
Delucy  went  to  her  sweet  country  home,  and, 
in  a  few  days,  received  a  large  parcel  of  fin- 
ished work,  together  with  a  dutiful  note  from 
her  Moravian,  containing  an  address,  to 
which  fresh  materials  were  to  be  sent  —  an 
address  to  a  shop,  none  other  ;  nor  was  any 
mention  made  of  her  son,  who  had  frightened 
her  into  secrecy  on  his  account. 

Lady  Delucy  looked  anxiously  for  Geral- 
dine,  the  moment  she  arrived  at  Northeden. 
But  though  she  sent  her  the  kindest  of  easy 
invitations,  on  finding  her  actually  at  hei 
bower  of  a  house  with  her  husband,  no 
Geraldine  appeared,  though  he  made  a  very 
short  visit  without  her,  and  mentioned  the 
fatigue  after  her  journey  from  town  in  ex- 
cuse for  her  non-appearance.  Lady  Delucy 
felt  puzzled  and  pained  —  she  felt  certain 
Geraldine  was  ill,  and  she  would  fain  have 
aided  her  with  her  tenderest  maternal  cares. 
As  for  Diamid,  passing  a  mother's  tenderness 
was  his ;  still  he  was  also  puzzled,  if  not 
also  pained.  For  her  depression  seemed  to 
deepen,  and  a  singular  reserve  veiled  from  him 
a  while  her  heart.  His  temper  remained  un- 
roused,  where  scarcely  any  man's  would  have 
preserved  its  calm,  and  he  philosophically 
attributed  her  manner  to  a  proud  desire  to 
conceal  the  utmost  irritability  of  suspense. 
For  a  book  produced  at  the  end  of  a  season  in 
town,  however  likely  to  be  read  for  that  very 
reason  out  of  town,  still  stands  a  chance  of 
remaining  long  uncriticised ;  then  reviewers 
are  rusticating,  and  editors  act  by  proxy.  It  •■ 
seemed  so  in  this  case,  for  none  had  appeared 
a  month  after  the  book  was  out. 

Now  Geraldine  had  never  desired  to  se* 


56 


RUMOR. 


her  family  since  her  marriage.  Certainly, 
she  had  only  been  married  a  year,  but  she 
had  during  that  time  received  and  refused 
many  invitations  to  her  father's  house.  Now 
that  all  public  business  was  suspended  a  while, 
Lord  Chevening,  her  father,  wanted  to  see 
])iamid,  his  pet  political  colleague,  to  enjoy 
communion  and  sympathy  with  him  on  the 
prophecies  and  jjrobabilities  of  the  next 
session.  He  had  written  to  him,  and  Geral- 
dine's  mother  had  Svritten  to  her  —  bidding 
tliem  to  Hope  Park.  Diamid  resolved  not 
to  mention  his  own  invitation,  till  Geraldine 
should  speak  or  give  some  hint  of  hers  ;  to 
his  surprise  she  told  him  of  it  immediately, 
and  expressed  her  wish  to  go.  In  fact, 
though  she  did  not  know  it,  she  began,  having 
•too  soon  been  satisfied  with  joy,  to  feel  the 
longing  for  excitement,  which  is  the  most 
dangerous  moral  symptom  that  can  affect 
human  nature. 

To  Hope  Park  they  went.  It  was  a 
curious  and  sufficiently  exciting  change  of 
scene  for  a  girl  who  had  seen  nothing  of 
r'nglish  character,  for,  say  what  one  will, 
there  is  no  life  —  no  social  development  of 
life,  which  reveals  character  so  clearly  as  a 
mixed  company,  gathered  at  a  country  house 
or  palace.  There  fashionable  persons  un- 
bend and  behave  as  though  they  had  dropped 
a  set  of  manacles  and  shackles,  and  could 
not  be  merry  enough  in  revenge.  There 
wise  persons  do  foolish  things,  men  and 
women  are  boys  and  girls  ;  above  all,  parents 
who  condemn  themselves  in  town  to  what  the 
best  of  them  must  feel  is  an  unnatural  state 
of  separation  from  their  children,  do  see  their 
babes  all  day,  play  with  them,  perhaps  even 
condescend  to  devote  themselves  to  their  de- 
light and  improvement ;  above  all,  there  one 
sees  the  worst  ^and  best  of  every  character, 
for  we  defy  any,  even  the  most  ruthless 
misanthropist,  to  enact  the  hypocrite  in  the 
bosom  of  a  home  whose  hospitalities  extend 
a  home  to  many  —  whatever  its  defects  — 
sacred,  and  felt  to  be  so  by  all  but  the  utterly 
perverted. 

The  hostess  of  Hope  Park  was  especially 
charming,  for  the  Italian  blood  of  Geraldine's 
tnother  gave  its  own  rare  and  courtly  sweet- 
liess  to  her  manners,  still,  easier,  if  some- 
what graver,  than  those  of  her  adopted 
country.  Though  not  passionately  attached 
to  her  daughter,  as  she  was  to  her  husband, 
she  still  loved  her  with  a  romantic  feeling 
very  peculiar  to  some  mothers  both  of  Italy 
and  southern  France.  Indeed,  no  one  in 
this  climate  Avould  give  them  credit  for  half 
the  feeling  they  possess,  because  it  is  so 
usual  for  them  to  part  with  their  daughters 
<o  the  bosom  of  the  church.  But  we  believe, 
that  much  of  Avhat  passes  for  superstition  in 
theii  characters  is  real,  though  childishly 
emiple,  fliith ;  even  ignorant,  still  to  be  re- 
spected as  sincere  ;  and  that,  under  such  cir- 
cumstances, they  suffer  more  than  they  can 
Hlow  or  dare  confess.    Just  so  had  Geraldine's 


mother  parted  with  her  to  her  grandmother  -  - 
as  she  Avould  have  parted  with  her  to  a  religious 
house  ;  so  that  she  had,  as  it  were,  to  make 
her  child's  acquaintance  under  conditions  so 
new  to  Geraldine,  that  it  M-as  much  more 
difficult  than  it  would  have  been  in  Italy. 
For  when  her  parents  had  visited  her  there, 
her  mother,  at  least,  had  relapsed  into  per- 
fect Italian  life ;  now  Geraldine  had  to  be- 
come perfectly  English,  and  found  she  ccnld 
not  do  it.  And  as  before,  she  had  never 
confided  in  her  mother,  from  having  been  too 
young  to  have  any  thing  to  confide,  so  now 
her  secrets  were  too  great  in  her  esteem,  and 
too  burdensome  to  be  revealed  at  all,  even 
if  she  could  have  put  them  into  words. 
Perhaps  had  she  possessed  the  sweetest  of  all 
a  woman's  secrets,  sympathy  might  at  once 
have  been  established  between  the  mother  and 
child,  soon  to  be  one  also,  but  this  was  not 
the  case.  Therefore,  though  the  mother  re- 
marked, as  did  the  father  also,  that  Geral- 
dine had  greatly  altered,  though  she  tried  to 
question  her  about  her  health  when  they 
were  alone,  she  could  not  advance  one  degree 
on  those  grounds.  Geraldine  repelled  every 
suggestion  of  her  illness,  laughed  the  pos- 
sibility to  scorn,  and  finally  succeeded  in  con- 
vincing her  mother  that  change  of  climate 
alone  had  made  her  thin  and  pale. 

Certainly,  odd  persons  may  be  met  some- 
times at  the  houses  of  high-born  persons. 
These  odd  persons  one  would  not  meet  at 
houses  of  the  middle  or  aspiring  orders,  who 
cannot  afford  to  compromise  themselves  by 
inviting  them,  any  more  than  barristers  dare 
entertain  attorneys  ;  or  merchants,  retailers  ; 
or  bankers,  stock  brokers ;  or  physicians, 
chemists.  So  it  happened  that  Helen  Jor- 
dan, the  rose  of  all  the  seasons,  found  her- 
self at  Hope  Park,  making  one  among  its 
bright,  refined,  autumnal  com])any.  This 
person,  girl  as  she  looked,  and  more  than 
woman  fully  grown  as  she  was,  had  certainly 
been  a  beauty,  faultless  so  far  as  the  perfec- 
tion of  external  beauty  went ;  she  still  pre- 
served her  color  in  perfection,  but  it  was  like 
petrified  bloom,  the  hard  gem  instead  of  the 
soft  flower ;  or  like  a  porcelain  painting  that 
catches  without  arresting  the  eye.  Why  she 
had  never  married  was  a  secret  she  kept,  or 
perhaps  there  was  no  secret,  and  she  but 
counterfeited  reserve  as  to  her  reasons,  that 
she  might  excite  belief  in  such  a  secret ; 
sacred  ever  be  such,  even  when  most  sad. 
It  was  certain  she  had  had  many  offers  of 
marriage  in  her  early  days,  for  she  was  a 
person  it  was  popular  to  have  been  refused 
by,  and  young  men  actually  boasted  of  such 
rejection.  She  was  brilliant  enough  to  have 
enchained  men  who  were  ^ery  j'oung,  and 
had  small  store  of  wisdon.  or  experience; 
but  the  older  and  wiser  —  who  had  perhaps 
bought  their  experience  dearly  —  were  ever 
on  the  watch  to  warn  their  younger  brethren 
against  her  —  detestable  certificate  for  a 
woman  to   have  graved   of  her   on   many 


RUMOR. 


57 


her  self-exposition,  unredeemed  by  senti- 
ment or  wit,  her  frivolity  that  was  never  gay, 
her  flirtations  that  had  no  romance.  Be  it 
also  taken  into  consideration,  that  her  father 
was  dimly  recorded  in  the  annals  of  social 
remembrance  as  a  celebrated  auctioneer, 
while  it  was  forgotten  entirely  that  her 
grandfather  had  been  a  dealer  in  second- 
hand furniture,  and  that  her  father  had  so 
well  provided  for  her,  that  even  in  the  society 
to  which  she  occasionally  attained,  her  for- 
tune could  not  be  counted  insignificant. 
The  greatest  mystery  about  her  was  that 
she  was  received  by  noble  and  refined  per- 
sons as  their. guest;  but  these  are  often  too 
indolent,  sometimes  too  good-natured,  and 
amiably  w^ell-bred,  to  cast  a  stone  at  any 
one  whom  chance  —  or  one  of  their  own 
class  —  has  thrust  in  their  way  —  much  less 
to  thrust  such  a  one  out  of  it.  It  had  hap- 
pened to  Helen  Jordan,  when  very  young, 
that  she  had  taken  the  fancy  of  an  ancient 
baron's  widow,  very  rich,  and  a  great  miser, 
who  now  and  then  invited  Helen's  father  to 
dinner  when  she  was  quite  alone,  to  reward 
him  for  having  triumphantly  rid  her  of  a 
dark  and  ill-drained  mansion,  with  the  ex- 
tra disadvantage  of  a  reputation  for  being 
haunted.  At  one  of  these  intensely  slow 
dinners,  the  old  dame  complained  of  her 
reader  —  that  was,  a  lean  and  unlettered 
lady's  maid,  whom  her  mistress  employed 
to  read  the  Times  to  her  every  day,  and  so 
to  save  her  eyes,  on  which  she  piqued  her- 
self as  not  requii'ing  spectacles.  Jordan 
ventured  to  insinuate  that  his  daughter  read 
admirably,  and  would  be  too  much  honored 
to  be  allowed  to  spend  her  whole  mornings 
in  doing  nothing  else;  and  the  dame,  having 
discovered  that  his  daughter  was  his  only 
incumbrance,  graciously  consented  to  try  her 
services  —  hinting  at  no  remuneration,  of 
course,  conscious  and  tender,  perhaps,  of  the 
suggestor's  pride.  Helen  went,  dressed  like 
a  Bath  belle  of  sixty  years  ago,  enrapturing 
the  dowager  by  such  a  concession  to  her 
tastes,  for  she  herself  wore  the  costume  of 
her  girlhood.  Helen  took  a  high  stand  at 
first,  talked  familiarly,  sang  to  the  guitar,  at 
which  she  looked  so  charming  that  her  pret- 
tiness  overcame  the  poverty  of  her  voice, 
and  at  length  routed  the  old  lady  into  ex- 
citement which  she  had  never  exhibited  for 
any  living  thing.  As  Helen  calashed  her- 
&e]£  for  her  sedan  —  concession  the  second 
—  the  dame  besought  her  to  come  and  read 
to  her,  making  the  request  as  fawningly  as 
Helen  could  desire.  As  a  very  great  ftivor, 
it  was  granted. 

Helen  knew  not  whether  she  could  spare 
the  time,  but,  at  least,  would  try  for  a  week; 
and  for  a  week  she  went  regularly,  reading 
the  whole  of  the  Times  through  daily,  in  a 
voice  inherited  from  her  father,  whose"  sono- 
rous stage-trick  delivery  was  half  the  secret 
of  his  success  in  his  calling.  After  that 
week  Helen  staid  away  her  week,  thereby 


enhancing  her  own  value  tsvo-fold,  and  the 
old  lady,  despairing  how  to  do  without  her, 
sent  her  a  beautiful  bracelet  and  a  nole  in 
her  own  hand-writing  —  she  who  had  not 
even  signed  her  own  name  for  twenty  years. 
Other  presents  followed  the  bracelet,  which 
had  been  followed  by  a  solitary  reading  ; 
also,  at  length,  having  attained  the  precise 
ideal  of  appreciation  she  chose  to  enjoy,  it 
became  a  habit  with  Helen  to  make  a  second 
home  of  the  dowager's  town-house.  She 
read  and  re-read  Sir  Charles  Grandison  and 
Clarissa,  Pamela,  and  all  Fielding  and  Smol- 
lett, the  Spectator,  and  Evelina,  all  the  old 
Bath  Chronicles,  and  tales  appended  to  an- 
tique fashion-books  —  in  short,  the  wisest 
and  the  silliest  specimens  of  the  literature 
of  days  before  she  was  born,  or  thought  of ; 
and  which,  on  her  own  account,  she  endured 
with  a  magnanimity  worthier  of  a  loftier 
cause. 

Next,  Helen  took  the  old  lady,  as  it  were, 
out  of  her  own  hands,  maligned  her  maid 
to  her,  brushed  and  dressed  the  wigs,  and 
arranged  the  toupees  and  turbans  with  which 
she  scared  the  fluent  graces  of  the  modern 
drawing-room.  She  yielded  at  last,  and 
Helen  received  her  reward,  a  reward  |in 
proportion  to  her  deserts.  But  not  for  a 
long  time ;  the  dowager  never  forgot  thai 
she  Avas,  as  she  would  have  elegantly  ex 
pressed  it,  a  noblewoman,  and  was  inexora- 
ble in  not  taking  Helen  with  her  into  public, 
nor  inviting  her  to  her  own  house,  unless 
she  was  alone,  daring  the  rest  of  her  father's 
life.  After  he  died,  the  old  lady  behaved  as 
though  he  had  never  been,  and  Helen  be- 
came to  her  as  a  daughter.  She  did  all  but 
introduce  her  at  Court;  that  she  never  hinted 
at,  nor  did  Helen  dare  to  hint,  and  with  all 
personal  advantages  she  never  could  per- 
suade any  one  to  present  her.  Every  where 
else  she  went,  forced  her  partners  into  ac- 
quaintances, and  her  acquaintances  into 
friends,  according  to  her  ideas  of  friendship ; 
still,  the  all-seasoned  rose  might  have  never 
chanced  to  find  herself  at  Hope  Park,  —  the 
loftiest  altitute  at  which  she  had  ever  dis- 
played her  bloom,  —  but  for  the  fact  that 
the  dowager's  great-nephew  and  heir  was 
one  of  Lord  Chevening's  official  hobby- 
horses, and,  while  he  staid  at  Hope  Park, 
his  aunt  was  invited  for  a  week,  on  purpose 
to  show  him  attention,  and  she  carried 
Helen,  now  indispensable,  along  with  her. 
And  so  now,  men  of  sage  and  solemn  repute, 
or  of  refined  and  fashionable  precedence, 
diverted  themselves  with  this  enduring 
flower  —  now,  because  they  esteemed  that 
she  had  no  right  to  look  for  matrimonial 
chances  —  though  such  men  would  not 
have  cast  a  glance  upon  her  in  her  younger 
and  fresher  days  ;  Me  cannot  call  them 
innocent. 

There  are,  doubtless,  many  worldly  per- 
sons who  are  of  passionate  natures,  and 
such  often  take  us  by  surprise ;  they  seem 


58 


RUMOR. 


inconsistent ;  startle  as  by  moods  of  melan- 
choly, pathetic  tones  chime  thi-ough  their 
cai'eless  speeches,  their  eyes  seem  to  swim 
in  dreams  sometimes,  even  in  the  scenes  of 
gayety  where  they  choose  and  delight  to 
mingle.  Such  persons  interest  us;  feeling 
so  redeems  vulgarity,  and  ever  so  slight  a 
touch  of  truth  for  the  moment  scatters 
vanity  like  the  sun  an  earth-drawn  mist. 
But  this  Helen  had  no  such  moods  ;  no  such 
tones  thwarted  softly  her  hard,  clear  voice, 
her  rudely-ringing  laughter;  no  such  dreams 
bedewed  her  bright,  brown  eyes,  ruthless  as 
a  rainless  heaven  of  brass  —  the  eyes  of 
dogs  have  more  fondness,  those  of  birds 
more  soul.  She  was  sure  to  get  on  in  the 
world,  sure  to  last  her  time,  not  wither  be- 
fore it.  Like  such  persons  in  general,  she 
detested  what  she  had  not,  feeling  displayed 
or  repressed:  she  despised  passion  in  the 
pure,  she  derided  the  love  of  the  self-sacri- 
ficing. Did  any  one  choose  solitude?  —  it 
■was  because  such  a  one  was  incapable  of 
shining  in  society.  Did  a  woman  remain 
unmarried  ?  —  it  was  because  she  could  not 
marry,  if  she  would.  It  may  be  added,  that 
to  this  same  Helen  Jordan,  Geraldine,  the 
instant  she  encountered  her  by  introduction, 
took  an  inveterate  dislike.  She  remembered 
her  face  at  the  party  at  the  publisher's,  where 
to  her  she  had  not  been  introduced,  and 
recollected  also  that  hearing  on  that  occa- 
sion she  was  a  beauty,  she  had  disliked  her 
then.  For  whatever,  and  how  great  soever, 
were  Geraldine's  faults,  she  was  most  true, 
and,  as  far  as  her  knowledge  went,  sincere. 
Geraldi  had  remained  in  town ;  no  induce- 
ments, nor  the  gentlest  of  Geraldine's  de- 
vices to  persuade,  had  influenced  him  on 
this  occasion.  She  was  surprised  at  his 
readiness  to  part  from  her  for  so  long  a 
time  —  perhaps  he  was  surprised  himself, 
but,  like  obstinate  persons  who  have  led  up 
to  a  certain  time  an  aimless  life,  he  clung  to 
a  design,  the  fii-st  he  had  ever  formed,  and 
whose  tissue  was  yet  almost  traceless  as  a 
dream,  with  a  limpet-like  tenacity.  Geral- 
dine, not  knowing  he  had  a  design  at  all, 
■was,  as  has  been  said,  surprised  ;  but  she 
little  expected  to  feel  any  want  of  him  in 
his  absence,  nor  did  she  discover  till  then 
that  there  was  a  certain  place  in  her  heart, 
a  tiny  sea-et  corner,  which  belonged  to  him 
alone.  The  first  hint  of  this  imperious 
blood-sympathy  betrayed  itself  in  the  fact, 
that  though  when  he  had  asked  her  to  write 
to  him,  she  had  consented  only  out  of  kind- 
ness for  his  lonely  life,  yet  she  actually  wrote 
her  first  letter  to  gratify  herself  more  than 
him.  For  in  perfect  wifely  love  there  is  ever 
a  sweet  awe  which  prevents  familiarity,  — 
not  confidence,  which  imphes  that  mutual 
secrets  belong  to  both  as  one ;  not  com- 
munion, which  involves  a  spiritual  mystery 
indissoluble  —  but  familiarity  ;  and  this  as- 
sertion, however  startling  is  fact,  whether  or 
not  received  as  truth.     Else  why,  in  count- 


less cases,  where  courtship  promised  bliss, 
fully,  and  nuptial  hours  were  ideal  and  sa. 
cred  even  for  the  prosaic  and  the  literal,  does 
the  bloom  wear  so  soon  from  the  mutual 
being  ?  why  so  slowly,  surely,  does  the  deli- 
cate hallucination  that  each  is  the  best  and 
brightest  of  all  who  breathe,  melt  from  the 
rugged  edge  of  hard  reality?  why  drop  the 
soft  courtesies,  one  by  one,  like  blossoms, 
leaving  crude,  hollow  forms  for  fruit  r 
whither  vanishes  the  gentleness  that  was  as 
breeding  to  the  lowly-born,  and  which  in- 
vested natural  polish  with  a  purity  as  far 
beyond  its  own  as  the  star  is  more  precious 
than  its  reflex  in  a  frozen  stream  ? 

Then  Geraldine,  besides  her  awe,  which 
was  the  shadow  on  her  deep  nature  of  her 
lofty  worship,  and  besides  her  ideality, 
which  made  so  mystical  her  love,  was  suf- 
ficiently self-appreciative  to  determine  that 
her  husband  should  ever  believe  her  fault- 
less, should  continue  to  give  her  credit  for 
strength  of  character  as  well  as  genius. 
Strength  of  character  she  had  not  yet  —  to 
the  most  ideal  natures  it  comes  not  natu- 
rally, it  is  the  guerdon  of  su9"ering  and  dis- 
cipline's experience  only.  Faults  she  had, 
and  the  greatest  of  them  might  be  more 
severely  named  —  she  lived  for  herself  alone 
—  yea,  even  where  she  loved ;  for  to  her  the 
power  of  loving  was  given  in  its  highest 
and  fullest  development ;  whose  gratifica- 
tion is  an  ecstasy,  whose  satisfaction  is 
heaven  bestowed  as  a  gift  —  not  won. 
Even  since  Geraldine's  despondent  frame 
had  settled  over  her  like  a  cloudy  change 
of  weather,  she  knew,  she  felt,  that  she  had 
lost  no  ground  with  Diamid,  whose  generos- 
ity to  those  he  loved,  nay,  to  those  he  could 
not  love,  was  even  an  unjust  bounty.  His 
young  wife's  melancholy  was  a  mood  of 
genius  —  as  such  to  be  tenderly  indulged, 
not  pitied  but  sympathized  with ;  petted, 
not  medicated  as  it  deserved  —  a  morbid 
mental  condition,  augury  of  moral  disease. 
But,  perhaps,  Geraldine  would  have  found 
it  impossible  to  preserve  her  credit  intact 
with  her  husband,  had  it  not  been  for  the 
free  outlet  granted  to  her  faults  and  frailties 
through  her  correspondence  with  one  as 
faulty,  if  not  as  frail ;  for  Geraldi  erred 
through  the  strength  of  his  character,  and 
his  godless  rehance  thereupon.  Geraldine 
could  bear  to  pour  out  her  mock  wrongs 
and  fancied  woes  to  one  she  knew  to  be  no 
;  better  than  herself.  Besides,  to  Geraldi  she 
!  wrote  in  Italian,  a  very  dangerous  medium 
;  for  an  imaginative  and  undisciplined  nature 
i  to  communicate  its  impressions  through,  nor 
■  did  Geraldi's  answers  coiTect  them,  nor  tend 
i  to  cool,  though  they  rather  consolidated 
what  should  have  been  blown  away  Avith 
one  contemptuous  breath.  But  Discipline 
j  and  Suff"ering  —  the  Substance  hard  as  mill- 
'  stone,  on  which  the  proud  heart  must  be 
broken  before  it  can  be  healed  forever,  and 
!  the  shadow  which  is  darker  than  the  Shadoi» 


RUMOR. 


5S 


of  Death,  we're  both  at  hand ;  and  was  not 
this  shadow  the  phantom  of  that  substance, 
the  reflex  which  proved  the  reality  ? 

Two  of  those  letters  from  Geraldi  she 
had  received  and  answered  ;  on  the  first  day 
of  certain  races,  Geraldine  received  his 
third,  and  had  no  time  to  answer  it,  as  she 
had  done  the  others,  by  return  of  post. 
There  wa  a  party  after  the  races,  and  no- 
body went  to  bed  till  broad  day,  Geraldine 
among  the  rest.  But  she  had  a  constitution 
not  yel  conventionalized,  and  could  never 
lie  late  in  the  morning,  even  when  she  had 
been  late  at  night.  Nor  had  she,  since 
sleeping  in  the  sweet  country  air,  desired 
nor  taken  opiates ;  thus  it  was  that,  having 
rested  for  one  hour  without  sleei)ing,  she 
rose  to  write,  Diamid  not  waking  to  per- 
ceive her  departure,  for  he  Avas  seasoned  so 
that  he  could  either  sleep  far  into  the  day, 
or  sleep  all  day  and  wake  all  night  —  if 
needful,  go  without  sleep  altogether. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

Geraldine  wrote  her  letter,  and  laid  it 
on  the  hall  table  to  be  posted ;  then  went 
into  the  garden,  but  presently  returned,  fol- 
lowing a  servant  whom  she  saw  with  the 
letter-bag  and  a  box  in  his  hands.  The  box 
and  bag  were  placed  in  the  library  ;  Geral- 
dine, who,  as  her  father's  only  child,  did 
exactly  as  she  pleased  with  his  privileges, 
o])ened  the  bag,  and  found  a  letter  from 
Ger.'ddi,  who,  as  he  expressed  it,  could  not 
bea)  his  existence  if  he  did  not  write  to  her 
eveiy  day.  This  letter,  more  bitter,  more 
im])etuous,  and  more  unreasonable  than  ever, 
dejected  her  more  deeply ;  before  she  had 
been  spiritless  enough.  Then  she  saw  news- 
papers, weekly  and  daily ;  she  dared  not 
open  them  ;  not  that  any  one  would  have 
suspected  her  of  looking  for  reviews,  but  she 
was  too  intensely  conscious  not  to  believe 
they  would.  The  box  was  corded  —  she 
dared  not  even  open  that,  for  by  its  label 
she  was  made  aware  that  it  came  from  a  cer- 
tain London  library,  and  contained  all  the 
new  books  of  the  hour.  Was  hers  there  ? 
She  might  not  look — she  must  wait  —  how 
long  it  seemed  —  to  know.  Again  she  went 
out  into  the  air.,  but  too  proud  to  bear  that 
the  servants  should  glance  upon  her  face, 
touched,  perchance,  with  the  trouble  of  her 
thoughts,  she  avoided  the  garden  altogether, 
and  crept  by  a  side-path  into  a  field  of  un- 
mown  grass,  whose  every  green  spire  was 
gleaming  with  gray  moisture,  and  whose 
every  buttercup  held  a  broad  head  of  gold- 
reflecting  dew.  Wandering  amidst  them, while 
again  she  read  and  re-read  Geraldi's  letter, 
not  only  her  silken  stockings  were  drenched, 
but  her  white  dress  clung  to  her  with  wet ; 


and  while  unconsciously  she  enjoyed  the 
cool  and  freshness,  her  burning  hands  anc' 
brilliant  lips  made  both  most  dangerous  — 
in  themselves  so  natural  and  sweet. 

At  last  the  loud  clanging  of  the  first 
breakfast  bell  swung  across  the  meadows. 
Geraldine  turned  at  its  first  stroke,  and  ran 
to  the  house.  Instinctively  she  avoided 
Diamid  —  she  knew  he  would  be  so  hurt  at 
her  self-exposure,  and  also,  though  not  as 
instinctively,  her  maid  —  for  she  was  too 
proud  to  let  a  servant  comment,  even  in  her 
own  mind,  upon  imprudence.  She  changed 
her  own  dress,  hastily,  feverishly,  for  now 
her  hands  were  dry  as  well  as  hot,  and 
where  the  coolness  of  the  dew  had  sunk  now 
throbbed  a  glowing  warmth,  intense  to  peiu. 
She  went  down  warily,  yet  trembling,  and  a 
.slight,  very  slight  sensation  oppressed  her 
breathing,  as  though  the  air  were  thick  with 
steam,  or  a  hand  intangible  lay  heavy  on  her 
chest. 

All  but  one  of  the  guests  were  down  to 
breakfast — was  it  not  the  second  day  of  the 
races  ?  and  with  them  was  not  every  one 
preoccupied,  except  Geraldine  and  her  hus- 
band ?  Even  Lord  Chevening  only  cracked 
the  seals  and  glanced  at  the  signatures  of  his 
letters  —  all  others  were  crammed  into  every 
body's  pockets.  But  of  the  event  on  the 
turf  the  day  before  the  papers  would  surely 
speak,  and  they  were  all  torn  open,  three  or 
four  pairs  of  eyes  scanning  each  column  at 
once.  As  for  the  box  of  books,  it  was  thrown 
on  a  chair  between  two  gentlemen,  and  no 
one  mentioned  it,  nor  meddled  with  it  for  a 
time.  But  lo !  when  breakfast  was  half 
through,  there  entered  Helen  Jordan  (who 
had  not  been  missed)  in  all  the  bravery  of 
her  race-dress,  short  habit,  silver  buttons 
each  large  as  half-a-crown,  hat  and  feathers, 
and  bugle-spai'kliiig  fall ;  little  stout  boots, 
and  slender  whip,  handle  crowned  with  a 
closed  parasol  no  larger  than  a  sunflower, 
one  hand  on  the  hip,  the  other  gantleted 
all  ready.  A  mechanical  salute  of  her  and 
her  charms  passed  round  the  table,  but  not 
even  the  courteous  Lady  Chevening  sug- 
gested t'lat  Helen  would  be  cooler  if  she 
took  jff  her  hat  till  the  necessary  moment 
of  p  itting  it  on ;  no  one  cared  whether 
Helen  was  warm  or  cool.  Seeing,  however, 
that  the  only  vacant  chair  had  been  filled  by 
the  book-box,  several  gentlemen  rose,  leis- 
urely enough,  to  fetch  another  ;  they  were  so 
long  about  it,  that  Helen  lifted  up  the  box, 
and  took  that  chair  herself  before  the  knights 
returned,  each  with  a  chair  in  his  hai  d,  upon 
which  she  spitefully  rallied  them,  and  with 
which  they  retreated  awkwardly  enough  — 
for  bold  or  spiteful  women  have  it  in  their 
power  to  shame  into  momentary  awkward- 
ness even  the  most  graceful  and  gallant  of 
men.  Next  Helen  examined  the  box —  she 
read  the  label  —  "  Mudie  ;  "  she  observed  — 
"is  it  allowable  to  open  it?  "  to  Lady  Chev« 
ening. 


60 


RUMOR. 


"  Certainly,"  was  the  reply  of  the  hostess,  i 
who  never  oj^ened  such  boxes  herself.  ; 

So  Helen  ordered  the  knight  at  her  left  | 
to  cut  the  cord,  remarking  in  his  face,  as  a  i 
reward,  "  I  am  not  clever,  but  I  can  never  I 
rest  till  1  know  what  the  clever  people  have 
got  to  say  for  themselves.  "What  a  bore," 
as  she  tossed  out  the  triads  of  romance-  j 
tomes,  "  it  must  be  to  write  what  it  is  such 
a  bore  to  read !  "  In  fact,  Helen,  who  had 
not  forgotten  the  promise  to  Tims  Scrannel, 
on  the  principle  that  one  good  tm-n  deserves 
another,  and  who  fully  expected  an  equiv- 
alent for  her  trouble,  was  longing  to  know 
whether  "  Virgilia,"  of  which  there  was  not 
a  purchased  copy  in  the  house  of  the  un- 
conscious father  of  the  writer,  was  in  the 
box. 

From  the  lips  of  the  foul  fiend,  breathed 
thi'ough  burning  mists,  Geraldine  would 
rather  have  heard  her  first-born's  darling 
name,  than  from  those  carnation-colored 
ones  which  dead  gallantry  had  often  chris- 
tened the  ruby  bow  of  Cupid.  Helen 
pelted  the  inofiensive  title  at  every  body's 
ears,  "  Virgilia,  Virgilia  —  brava,  Virgilia,  at 
last!  —  that  odd,  horrid  book,  which  came 
out  at  the  end  of  the  season.  Who's  read 
it  ?  " 

"  I,"  and  "  I,-"  said  two,  in  such  a  tone  as 
they  would  have  used  if  asked  whether  they 
took  tea  or  coff'ee. 

"  Well,"  said  a  third,  as  insignificantly, 
"  I  have  not  read  it,  only  looked  at  it ;  it  is 
scarcely  worth  skimming." 

"  Is  it  a  love  story  ?  "  asked  a  young  man. 

Helen  answered  him  by  opening  the  first 
volume  in  the  middle,  and  beginning  in  her 
intolerable  stage  drawl,  a  sentence  —  one  of 
those  at  the  climax  of  a  scene,  the  crisis  of 
a  revealed  idea  —  which  had  sounded  to 
Geraldine,  as  she  wrote  it,  as  beautiful  as 
her  own  thought. 

"  What  awful  stuff! "  said  Helen. 

And  she  made  it  sound  so.  Listen  to  a 
subject,  nay,  a  phrase  of  a  Beethoven  sonata 
from  the  fingers  of  a  Chopinist  —  is  it  intel- 
ligible ?  Listen  to  a  line  of  Shelley  droned 
from  the  throat  of  a  Carlyle  pessimist.  To 
those  who  ridicule,  without  wit,  the  ridicu- 
lous is  the  sublime.  Helen  flashed  the 
leavos  rudely  over,  read  another  scene,  in  a 
louder  and  distincter  drawl,  —  one  of  those 
sce-js  of  passion  which  should,  if  read  at 
all,  De  inly  pondered  never  read  aloud  — 
true  to  nature,  and  which  none  but  those 
true  to  nature  can  bear  to  hear.  Geraldine, 
just  as  she  could  not  control  her  feelings  in 
writing,  could  not  perfectly  control  her  face, 
particularly  now  that  she  was  Aveak  ;  at  the 
back  of  her  neck  there  tingled  a  thrill,  | 
whose  nervous  evidence  she  was  not  phys- 
iologist enough  to  recognize ;  it  seemed  to  1 
unbalance  her  from  head  to  foot,  as  a  pass-  j 
ing  thunder  cloud  unbalances  one  of  strong 
electrical  affinities.  A  terror  dropped  upon 
her  like  a  leaden  shroud,  that  still  pressed  , 


heaviest,  most  lead-like,  where  the  phantom 
weight  had  fallen  round  her  heart,  creeping 
to  its  centre  now,  and  over  all  her  breast. 
As  her  whole  face  whitened  except  her  lips, 
their  dull,  dry  crimson  seemed  to  redden 
darker,  the  fever  shade  which  is  itself  as  fire. 
The  anonymous  she  had  only  adopted  to 
please  her  husband  ;  then  she  had  wished 
for  all  to  know  her  name ;  now  she  writhed 
with  fear  lest  that  last,  light  veil  should  be 
rent  from  her  unclothed  spirit.  Just  as  she 
dared  not  look  at  him,  he  dared  r^ot  look  at 
her.  Little,  indeed,  had  he  foredreaded 
that  one  of  those  bold  womin  who,  thank 
God,  are  as  rare  as  the  very  refined,  would 
be  the  fii'st  exponent  of  poor  Geraldine's 
luckless  genius. 

Helen  Jordan  read  :juickly  with  her  eye, 
and  between  her  fits  of  brazen  trumpeting 
she  glanced  greedily  up  and  down  the  col- 
umns —  beautiful  clear  type  —  as,  honor  to 
Geraldine's  publisher,  his  types  always  are. 
So  Helen  caught  the  clew  of  the  book,  and 
realized  the  style  —  for  it  had  a  style, 
whether  good  or  bad.  It  struck  her  as  it 
might  not  have  struck  a  wiser  and  fuller 
brain,  that  there  was  a  singular  but  actual 
similitude  between  the  style  and  that  of  Di- 
amid  Albany.  For  Helen,  in  past  times, 
before  the  brand  of  her  father's  calling  had 
been  wiped  from  her  brow  by  the  shame- 
eft'acing  noble  —  scarcely  potent  less  than 
royal  touch  —  had  been  wont  to  study  the 
world  romances  of  Albany,  and  to  prime 
herself  with  them  for  society.  Now  this 
likeness  to  his  style  in  Geraldine's  was  not  a 
fancied  one ;  it  existed,  and  so  strongly  that 
it  would  have  been  a  marvel  he  had  not  per- 
ceived and  feared  it,  except  for  the  fact  that 
his  own  style  was  so  perfectly  unstudied, 
his  own  art  in  word-expression  so  innate 
and  unconsciously  self-developed,  that  he 
really  did  not  know  he  had  one.  And  Ger- 
aldine's style  was  as  unstudied ;  but  uncon- 
sciously had  she  imitated  the  only  English 
writing  which  her  memory  had  absorbed ; 
the  ideas  still  her  own,  and  her  mind's 
thoughts  such  as  had  never  been  winged 
from  his ;  it  was  but  like  the  mellow  mantle 
which  fell  on  the  rainbow  palettes  of  the 
master-pupils  of  certain  master-painters  — 
no  mimicry,  but  a  memorial,  rich  and  radi- 
ant, of  those  who  first  showed  them  that 
Art's  iris  is  itself  as  Heaven's,  divine. 

Now,  where  wise  persons  suspect  and  are 
silent,  the  foolish  are  convinced,  and  speak 
—  they  overreach  themselves.  Helen,  the 
instant  she  perceived  the  likeness  to  Albany's 
in  the  style  of  the  volume  she  was  vulgar- 
izing, darted  upon  the  certainly  that  he  had 
actually  written  it.  This  certainty  inspired 
her  with  racier  impudence ;  it  would  be  so 
delicious  to  expose  him  to  Scrannel's  deli- 
cate and  deliberate  vivisection.  So  she  ended 
her  reading  with  a  boisterous  rendering  of 
the  most  original  and  the  purest  utterance 
in  the  book  —  a  startling,  but  positively  txua 


RUMOR. 


61 


memories  —  against  her  hollcnv-heartedness, 
assertion  about  the  affinities,  sympathetic 
and  antipathetic  —  of  Sex.  Then  she  looked 
up,  and  threw  down  the  book  with  a  trium- 
phant bang,  laughed  her  own  overpowering 
English  laugh ;  every  one  else  laughed,  but 
no  one  so  loud,  no  woman  ever  laughed  so 
loud  as  she,  nor  ever  will.  Everj  one 
laughed,  that  is  to  say,  even  Albany  relaxed 
as  much  towards  the  sound  of  one  as  he  was 
ever  known  to  do  ;  perhaps  he  had  never 
been  heard  to  laugh  before.  And  Gcraldine 
smiled  into  a  cough,  which  might  have 
passed  for  laughter  but  for  the  wild  quiver 
of  the  smile  :  and  that  quiver  caught  Helen's 
eye ;  the  sensitiveness  she  despised  in  any 
creature  that  did  her,  as  she  thought,  good 
service  —  only  wifely  sensitiveness  could 
have  so  sicklied  the  exquisitely  lovely  smile 
which  was  one  of  Geraidine's  pure  fascina- 
tions. So  Helen  was  doubly  sure  —  she 
saucily  stared  upon  Albany.  "  This  book  is 
by  an  admirer  of  yours,"  she  said  :  "  it  is 
like  a  very  poor  imitation  of  your  '  Lotus 
Valley.'  "  " 

"  Indeed ! "  said  he,  distantly,  and  stretched 
his  hand  for  the  nearest  newspaper.  He 
little  cared,  just  then,  if  every  one  thought 
it  actually  his  own  book. 

"  Here,"  said  Lord  Chevening,  fluttering 
the  magazine  he  held  himself,  "  happens  to 
be  a  notice  of  the  book  Miss  Jordan  has 
been  so  good  as  to  instruct  us  from,  and 
from  which  I  regret  to  say,  I  at  least  have 
learned  nothing." 

"Let  me  see  it,"  said  Albany,  quaintly, 
humoring  with  ti  curled  lip  the  notion  of  his 
own  concern  therewith. 

"  On  condition  that  you  read  it  aloud," 
exclaimed  Miss  Jordan,  Avho  flattered  her- 
self his  self-sensitiveness  Avould  so  betray 
him. 

"  Read  it,  Diamid,"  said  Geraidine's  voice  ; 
she  had  preconceived  it  calm,  at  her  own 
command,  or  never  had  she  spoken.  Now 
she  shuddered  at  its  unfamiliar  sound,  for 
its  natural  music  had  collapsed  into  the  tone 
of  a  snapped  harpstring.  Diamid  loved  too 
much,  feared  too  much  for  her  he  loved,  to 
shudder,  or  betray  the  least  emotion :  he 
began  coldly,  inexpressively,  almost  taunt- 
ingly, to  read.  When  Geraldine  had  asked 
him  —  to  his  drear  surprise  —  it  was  because 
a  sudden  hope  had  blossomed  in  her  heart, 
blossomed  like  all  the  minor  ecstasies  of  the 
imaginative,  of  instantaneous  impulse.  A 
first  review  !  She  was  wise  enough  to  know 
that  the  judgments  of  those  about  the  table 
were  the  rash,  vague  verdicts  of  the  foolish, 
whose  opinions,  like  too  many  of  their  vir- 
tues, are  "  written  in  the  water."  And, 
thought  Geraldine,  excitedly,  now  should 
their  laughter  be  derided,  their  poor  scorn 
scattered  by  the  just  award  of  unbiassed 
approbation.  They  might  all  soon  hear  and 
tremble.  No  such  thing !  the  review  was 
just  like  such  articles  in  general :  its  mark  a 


patent,  and  useless  for  those  who  needed  it, 
as  nearly  all  patents  are.  It  said  the  same 
it  would"  have  said  of  any  other  book,  foisted 
upon  common  sense  the  same  ]:)!atitudes  th-at 
have  insulted  human  intelligence  ever  since 
criticism  became  a  craft  instead  of  an  art. 
Not  a  word  of  definite  praise,  nor  decided 
blame ;  not  an  attempt  at  analysis  ;  no  pon- 
dering interest  over  a  possible  design  ;  no 
credit  given  for  feeling,  however  exaggerated, 
nor  for  aspiration,  how  weak  soever  in  its 
flight ;  —  but  instead  of  advice,  innuendo  ; 
and  instead  of  suggestion,  silence. 

Perhaps  Geraldine  would  not  have  expe- 
rienced the  stunning  reaction  which  befell 
her,  but  for  the  fact  that  her  health  was 
actually  deranged.  But  every  one  who  un- 
derstands the  temperament  —  ideal-sanguine 
—  of  the  ever  so  slightly  consumptive, 
knows  that  any  excitement,  which  quickens 
the  heart's  action,  is  far  more  to  be  shunned 
and  dreaded  than  the  withering  hectic,  or 
wasting  hemorrhage  —  because  it  is  the  fore- 
runner of  both.  And  that  still  voice,  M'ith 
its  weight  of  chilling  words,  brought  the 
reaction  —  the  fever-fire  leaping  to  the 
cheeks,  the  )vild  weak  flutter  of  the  heart 
against  the  side,  no  longer  as  the  moth 
within  the  glass,  but  as  the  bird  between  the 
bruising  bars.  And  the  intangible  hand  of 
suffocation  pressed  heavier  on  the  whole  de- 
fenceless bosom  ;  Geraldine  knew  that  if  she 
remained  there  —  within  the  cruel  charm  of 
those  cold  circling  eyes,  with  that  still  voice 
that  seemed  to  ice  the  words  to  chillier  calm, 
she  should  give  one  of  those  gasping  screams 
which  had  Ijeen  new  to  her  of  late,  when  she 
was  over-hurried  or  fatigued.  She  left  the 
room,  nothing  following  her  save  some 
twenty  levelled  glances,  and  Helen  Jordan's 
perfect  self-congratulation  that  now  her  ques- 
tion was  settled  —  Albany  had  written  the 
book. 

And  there  sat  Albany,  steadily  turning 
the  leaves  of  the  magazine,  reading  here  and 
there  a  phrase  or  two  aloud,  seeming  to  read 
whole  pages  for  himself —  not  looking  up 
nor  raising  one  wistful  eyebrow,  nor  chan- 
ging color  —  he  dared  not  follow  her,  after 
whom  every  thing  but  his  bodily  presence 
and  his  Mill  had  flown.  Had  he  followed  he 
would  not  have  found  her  then,  for  she  had 
locked  herself  into  her  own  room.  She  had 
scarcely  reached  it,  before  the  redef  came 
with  deadly  danger,  danger  she  dreamed  not 
of —  she  burst  a  vessel  in  the  lungs.  An 
instinct  told  her  that  Diamid  would  be 
alarmed  at  the  symptom,  while  it  alarmed  not 
her.  And  at  this  crisis  it  was  well  for  her  that, 
when  a  very  little  child,  she  had  now  and 
then  spit  blood,  on  which  occasions  her 
grandmother  in  Italy  had  given  her  copious 
draughts  of  lime  or  lemon  juice,  which  had 
'  never  failed  to  cure  her.  She  rang  the  bell, 
[  then  waited  at  the  door  for  the  maid,  not 
'  allowing  her  a  glimpse  of  her  face,  but  bid- 
,  ding  her  bring  some  lemons,  which  Geral- 


62 


KUMOR. 


dine  tooK  in  at  the  door,  again  locking  it. 
The  delicious  juice,   not  only  for  the   time 
annihilated   the   exhausting   symptom,   but 
with  its  pure  acid  and  ineffable  fragrance, 
lent  refreshment  and  revival  such  as  only 
Nature's   medicines  yield.     But  -with   them 
came   the   restlessness  of  recovered  partial 
strength  —  that   is,    power   to    move  —  she 
could  bear  to  lie  down  no  longer,  and  longed 
for  a  full  rush  of  air  ;  besides,  she  feared  to 
remain  long  enough  from  the  company  to 
excite  remark,   or   question,  which  Diamid 
might  ask,  determined  for  an  answer.    Look- 
ing out  from  a  gallery-window,  she  saw  that  a 
gay  group  had  gathered  already  on  the  sunny 
lawn,  but  the  long  terrace  raised  above  the 
lawn  v,-as  empty  ;  there  she  went,  and  there 
the  east  wind  —  ever  in  England  companion 
to  the  hottest  sun  —  revelled  from  end  to 
end,  in  so   sti-ong  a  current,  that  Geraldine 
was  obliged  to  hold  by  the  balustrade  lest 
it    should    sweep  her   do\\n  the  steps.     As 
dreamy  natures  do,  in  painless  suffering,  she 
closed  her  eyes,  so  that  she  did  not  see,  and 
her  sense  of  hearing  being  less  acute  than 
usual,  she  did  not  hear  a  person  approach  ' 
her  with  stealthy  rapid  steps  — ;not  Diamid,  ! 
who  unfortunately  had  not  left  the   house, 
hoping  every  moment  that  Geraldine  would 
return  to  the  breakfast-room  —  not  Diamid,  | 
but    Helen   Jordan.      No    one  joined   her,  | 
when,  perceiving  with   the   rest,    Geraldine  j 
standing  above,  she  had  announced  her  in- i 
tention  of  going  to  inquire  whether  she  Avas  | 
ill,  for  no  other  person  would   have  dared  ;  | 
Geraldine  had  made  no  friends  among  her  ! 
father's  English  guests,   and  they  were   all 
refined,  perhaps  as  proud  as  she,  themselves, 
however,   as   arbiters,    foolish    and    uncon- 
sciously impertinent. 

Upon  the  east  wind  broke  that  brazen 
voice,  not — "Are  you  ill?"  "Are  you  i 
weary  ?  "  not  "  Are  you  not  likely  to  take  ! 
cold  without  a  bonnet  ?  "  —  nothing  to  pre-  i 
pare  her  to  smooth  the  way  to  the  audacious  ! 
question.  Miss  Jordan  knew  how  much  j 
easier  it  was  to  startle  and  shock,  than  to 
•woo  or  magnetize,  the  truth  out  of  a  loving  i 
nature,  caring  to  conceal  it. 

Miss  Jordan  simply  said,  "  I  have  your  ' 
secret,  and  a  noble  one  it  is,  worth  a  wife's 
p-eserving.  Pray,  preserve  it  always,  for  I 
fancy  I  only  know  it,  and  it  is  safe  with 
me." 

Opening  her  closed  eyes,  and  half-closed 
ears,  unable  to  realize,  to  comprehend, 
scared  rather  than  startled,  Geraldine  stood 
before  that  worst  of  woman's  foes,  another 
woman  set  against  her.  Soon  she  was  made 
to  understand,  it  was  not  in  Helen  to  tor- 
ment by  halves.  But  well  as  it  is  for  a  wife 
to  ])reserve  such  a  secret,  a  wife  would  have 
done  better  to  have  prevented  its  existence. 
"  Oh,  Lady  Gerakline,  it  bears  evident 
marks  of  his  having  over-written  himself. 
Great  geniuses  ought  to  die  young,  or  if 
they  live  they  should  never  write  after  forty 


—  the  mind  by  that  time  has  run  to  seed. 
But  perhaps  he  never  told  you  he  meant  to 
write  it,  and  you  only  discovered  his  author- 
ship, as  I  did,  by  instinct.  Yet  I  cannot 
help  fancying  you  coaxed  him  —  did  you 
not  ?  —  a  young  wife,  too,  might  succeed, 
for  he  is  old  enough  to  be  your  father. 
Why,  I  remember  him  when  I  first  came 
out,  all  those  years  ago  —  then  in  the  merid- 
ian of  his  renown.  And,  because  you  have 
been  educated  abroad,  you  don't  know,  how- 
ever much  his  partj —  a  small  square  party 
enough,  too  —  may  puff  him  in  the  House 
of  Commons,  yet  as  an  author,  he  has  been, 
rather  than  is,  and  the  reprints  of  his  book  • 
are  only  read  by  those  mechanics  and  agri- 
culturists, whom  the  Radicals  are  trying  to 
elevate.  It  is  a  great  pity,  and  I  feel  very 
much  for  you  —  I  saw  how  distressed  you 
were." 

The  effect  which  worldly  persons  have  un- 
I  deniably  upon  persons  perfectly  unworldly, 
is  a  physiological  phenomenon,  which  none 
can  account  for,  and  which  few  see,  as  the 
latter  class  are  a  very  small  minority.  Place 
an  unworldly  nature,  of  whatever  faults,  face 
to  face  with  one  its  compeer  in  nobility  and 
freedom,  and  it  will  expand,  exidt,  show  all 
its  moods  of  sympathy  or  grace.  But  upon 
a  nature  so  unworldly,  a  person  who  does 
really  care  for  the  things  of  this  world  only, 
has  an  influence,  saddening  while  depress- 
ing ;  it  is  certain,  at  such  moments,  that  the 
superior  is  for  the  time  at  the  mercy  of 
the  inferior  —  it  is  the  dust-crawling  serpent 
which  fascinates  the  free-winged  bird  of 
air.  As  Geraldine  gathered,  word  after 
word,  the  fulness  of  the  insolent  meaning, 
her  last  care  for  her  own  secret  vanished ;  in 
her  own  eyes  she  sank  contemptible,  and  fit 
to  be  despised  by  others.  But  he,  her  hus- 
band, rose  to  her  ideal  of  him,  dilated  to  a 
majesty  of  perfection  which  age  after  age 
should  cover  with  many  crowns,  not  her  love 
so  felt,  so  prophesied  ;  theti  had  her  secret 
remained  safe,  but  her  ambition,  which  after 
all  was  for  him,  not  herself,  and  which  she 
had  gratified  in  exposing  herself  to  publicity 
for  his  sake.  And  so,  in  a  moment  of  what 
men,  perhaps  even  her  husband,  would  have 
called  weakness,  but  which  was  really  the 
noblest  strength  of  woman,  she  fiercely, 
tragically  exclaimed,  — 

"  /  wrote  the  book,  not  Diamid.  Ask 
him,  if  you  will,  and  if  he  denies  it,  I  Mill 
swear." 

Martpdom  —  self-sacrifice  !  those  who 
shriek  at  a  flame-singe  of  their  little  finger- 
end,  and  who  eat  winter  strawberries  in  the 
faces  of  the  little  children  who  cry  for  bread, 
believe  in  ye  the  best.  The  martyr  sees  his 
own  image  in  no  clear  self-contemplation,  he 
does  but  contemplate  the  Hght  beyond  the 
veil  of  fire  ;  the  saint,  whose  life  is  but  one 
long  sigh,  never  listens  to  its  echo,  for  there 
is  no  pause  in  pain  to  make  one  heard. 
Helen   really   thought    that   Geraldine   had 


RUMOR. 


63 


taken  what  she  childishly  conceived  to  be 
her  husband's  disgrace  upon  herself;  she  did 
give  her  credit  for  taking  it,  at  the  same 
time  that  she  despised  her.  To  torment  Dia- 
mid  the  more,  she  went  to  find  him,  utterly 
undaunted  by  his  breeding  or  his  fiime,  or 
his  certainly  exalted  political  position,  not  to 
mention  that  he  had  never  noticed  her  by 
word  or  look.  She  found  him,  as  she  ex- 
pected, in  the  breakfast  room,  at  the  window 
which  did  not,look  to  the  terrace. 

"  Lady  Gerakline  Albany  has  been  con- 
fiding to  me  the  secret  of  her  authorship," 
said  Helen,  quite  as  composedly,  nay,  con- 
descendingly, as  though  she  had  been  her 
namesake  who  fired  Troy.  Albany  only  an- 
swered, "  All  that  a  married  woman  has 
belongs  to  her  husband,  you  know."  But  he 
went  to  look  for  Gerakline  in  the  garden, 
knowing  Miss  Jordan  had  been  thej-e.  Es- 
pying her  still  on  the  wind-swept  terrace, 
with  the  sun  burning  on  her  uncovered  hair, 
he  ran  to  her  up  the  steps.  Unhappily  for 
her — for  him  —  he  adored  consistency  of 
intellectual  character,  and,  without  firm  voli- 
tion, he  even  mistrusted  genius.  There  was 
not  only  disappointment,  but  disapproval  in 
his  face  —  he  uttered  the  first,  the  last  found 
no  voice,  but  by  a  more  subtle  medium  it 
penetrated  her  heart.  She  felt  she  had 
done  no  harm  ;  her  pride  poured  strengtli 
through  all  her  veins.  So  when  he  said, 
"  My  Geraldine,  how  could  you  tell  that  wo- 
man ?  "  she  answered,  not  meekly,  but  with- 
out her  wonted  wifely  reverence,"  "  I  had  the 
right" 

Helen  Jordan  wrote  a  charming  letter  by 
that  night's  post,  to  her  valued  friend,  Tims 
Scrannel. 


CHAPTER    XV. 

Geraldi,  by  blood-sympathy,  was  as  mis- 
erable and  well  nigh  as  physically  depressed 
that  morning  as  his  cousin.  For  some  time 
past,  too,  a  still  more  literal  annoyance  than 
the  causes  distressing  her,  had  drugged  life 
very  bitterly  for  the  haughty  boy.  For, 
whatever  were  Geraldine's  m'ental  suffer- 
ings, at  which  the  majority  of  persons  would 
have  sneered  as  consequent  upon  morbid 
self-indulgence  and  intellectual  luxury,  she 
was  spared  one  torment  which  is  inconceiv- 
able, inappreciable,  by  any  who  have  not 
struggled  with  it,  or  endured  it  —  worldly 
care  —  the  fact  of  positive,  not  negative,  pov- 
erty or  dependence.  Certainly,  Geraldi  had 
been  poor  in  Italy,  but  he  had  not  felt  it 
painfully,  partly  because  it  was  his  own 
family  who  supported  him,  and  partly  be- 
cause in  that  land  poverty  is  delicately 
unacknowledged  as  a  misfortune,  tacitly  and 
tenderly  assisted  or  pitied,  never  dreamed 
of  as  a  fault  or  a  disgrace,  as  it  is  esteemed 


and  held  in  this  nation  of  shopkeepers, 
where,  whoever  may  choose  to  contradict  it, 
the  fact  remains,  and  the  poor  know  it  and 
believe  it ;  though,  perhaps,  for  that  very 
reason,  they  will  not  subscribe  to  it.  Cer- 
tainly, Geraldi  had  been  still  dependent  on 
Geraldine,  when  he  came  to  England,  but 
he  depended  no  longer  on  her  alone,  so  he 
felt,  and  he  had  not  foreseen  how  it  would 
aft'ect  him  to  be  indebted  to  one  in  whose 
veins  not  a  drop  of  his  own  blood  mingled. 
Most  delicately  and  generously  had  All)any 
endeavored  to  make  Geraldi  at  home  in  his 
house,  but  had  found  it  impossible  to  please 
him,  so  difiicult  was  he  to  control  or  satisfy, 
and  at  last  the  man  upon  whose  head  and 
hands  affairs  pressed  heavily,  was  forced  to 
fall  back  on  a  habit  of  polite  courtesy  which 
had  no  special  suggestiveness,  but  which 
Geraldi  chose  to  interpret  into  a  cool  dislike 
and  unexpressed  desire  to  be  rid  of  him. 
Then  followed  the  most  harassing  and 
humiliating  conviction  that  can  befall  a 
proud  mind,  one  which  might  irritate  and 
harshen  the  sweetest  of  tempers  —  which 
Geraldi's  was  not.  As  soon  as  ever  he  im- 
bibed enough  knowledge  of  the  English 
tongue — very  soon,  too,  for  he  was  as  intel- 
ligent as  he  was  idle  —  he  discovered  by 
words  what  he  had  half-suspected  through 
signs,  that  the  English  servants  knew  and 
disdained  his  poverty  and  dependence.  How 
knew  they  he  was  poor  and  dependent  ? 
Servants  find  out  every  thing,  particularly  in 
London.  They  would  seem  to  have  a  sixth 
sense,  such  as  some  old  naturalist  ascribed 
to  bats.  They  are  aware  when  husbands 
and  wives  differ,  who,  the  world  believes, 
agree,  yea,  though  they  wrangle  in  a  whis- 
per within  closed  double-doors.  They 
know  the  daughter's  real  preference  among 
all  the  young  men  who  come  to  the  house, 
long  before  papa  and  mamma  suspect  or  for- 
bid. They  know  the  haunts  of  the  sons 
whose  mothers  are  so  happy  in  their  minds 
at  the  steadiness  and  home  clustering  affec- 
tions of  those  youths,  and  they  also  know 
what  tradesmen  the  sons  toady  to  prevent 
their  dunning.  They  know  the  exact  state 
of  family  finance  when  the  domestic  econ- 
omy is  retrenched,  and  why  —  when  the, 
purse  brims  over  with  precious  droppings, 
and  the  last  coin  at  the  attenuated  end  can- 
not chink  for  want  of  a  companion.  A  king 
of  writers  has  written,  with  deep  sarcasti(. 
pathos  all  his  own,  of  the  skel(  ton  closet. 
The  lord  of  the  house  may  keep  the  key  of 
that  closet  in  his  breast,  but  his  servants 
possess  its  duplicate. 

No  wonder,  therefore,  the  servants  found 
out  Geraldi's  poverty  and  position  in  the 
house  —  a  position  for  which  they  would  not 
have  exchanged  their  own.  And  during  the 
whole  time  he  had  been  in  town,  he  had 
practised  himself — even  to  think  —  in  Eng- 
lish, having  a  futile  impression  that  by  so 
doing  he  should  enable  himself  to  loose  his 


64 


RUMOR. 


own  bands,  not  to  leave  Gerakline,  for 
rather  than  leave  her,  he  would  have 
endured  the  scorn  and  impertinence  of 
every  servant  in  London,  hut  to  become 
rich  and  exhibit  his  riches  in  the  eyes  of 
those  to  whom  wealth  is  worth.  His  ideas 
were  sufficiently  innocent  in  their  ignorance, 
though  all  liad  vanity  for  their  parent ;  of 
course  when  he  knew  English  well  enough 
to  write  it,  he  should  write  books  like  Ger- 
aldine,  for  boys  of  all  countries  think  they 
can  do  what  girls  do,  better  than  the  latter. 
And  of  course,  he  calculated  on  success 
double  that  he  expected  her  to  attain. 

But  happily  for  his  real  success,  these 
poor  ghosts  of  literary  projects  were  scat- 
tered in  the  morning  sunlight  of  his  first 
intellectual  excitement.  To  Diamid  Albany, 
who  had  written  some  fine  plays  himself. 
Lady  Delucy  had  sent  the  transcript  into 
Italian  of  the  tragedy  of  Alarcos,  anxious 
for  his  infallible  verdict  upon  the  rendering. 
Albany  glanced  through  it,  and  then  gave  it 
to  Geraldine,  with  a  tender,  spousal  compli- 
ment on  her  superior  acquaintance  with  the 
language  of  the  translation.  Geraldi,  jeal- 
ous of  all  then-  mutual  confidences,  small  as 
well  as  great,  and  who  was  ever  on  the 
watch  to  detect  symptoms  of  sympathetic 
secrecy  in  his  own  pi-esence,  took  the  trans- 
lation, sheet  by  sheet,  to  read,  as  Geraldine 
finished  each  and  laid  it  on  the  table.  Such 
a  character  as  Geraldi,  happily  a  rare  one, 
is  the  only  kind  of  character  for  which  the 
absorption  of  such  a  dramatic  narrative  is 
dangerous.  To  such  a  one  the  moral  has  no 
meaning,  the  meaning  is  centred  in  the  in- 
tense crisis  of  the  plot.  Precedent  is  a 
guarantee  for  the  rights  of  the  passions  ; 
they  are  strong,  and  therefore  are  to  make 
way  and  conquer.  And  Geraldi  was  no 
coward  physically  ;  not  the  guillotine  would 
have  shaken  the  equilibrium  of  his  nerves. 
He  could  have  slain  himself,  like  Alarcos ; 
have  let  his  own  captive  spirit  go  free 
through  the  unknown  after  death,  for  the 
chaiice  of  meeting  Geraldine's  spmt  there. 
The  terrible  and  sombre  beauty  of  the  poem 
was  as  soothing  to  his  atrabilious  nature  as 
a  handful  of  fresh  roses  to  the  pure  in  heart. 
Geraldine,  charmed  to  perceive  that  any  thing 
interested  him,  found  it  easy  to  persuade  him 
to  go  with  her  and  her  husband  to  the  fii'st 
performance  of  Alarcos.  and  having  been 
there,  he  went  to  all  the  rest,  still  admiring 
infinitely  more  the  acting  than  the  music, 
and  envying  every  actor  in  his  turn.  No 
one  will  deny  that  it  is  easier  to  find  a 
genius"  modest,  even  over-modest,  than  a 
person  of  good  talents  even  moderately  so. 
Geraldi  felt  quite  certain  he  could  be  an 
actor,  the  fii-st  of  actors,  and  the  fii'st  of 
singers  too.  Then  his  nobility,  as  an  actor, 
would  be  untarnished,  nay,  ennobled  further.  ^ 
He  knew  the  story  of  a  certain  Sicilian  count, ' 
and  also  how  rich  he  had  made  himself  — 
immeasurably  rich  in  Geraldi's  estimate,  for 


Geraldine,  during  a  drive,  had  pointed  out 
to  him  the  really  splendid  villa-residence  cf 
this  same  masked  grandee.  So  this  new 
idea,  which  seemed  to  his  vanity  a  project 
quite  feasible,  just  as  it  was  proper  to  his 
])ride,  incited  him  to  go  into  comjjany  with 
Geraldine,  though  he  had  declared  he  never 
W'Ould.  It  was  on  the  occasion  already  men- 
tioned, when  they  were  to  see  the  composer 
of  Alarcos  as  an  opera,  and  Geraldi  had  no 
idea  of  consulting  any  one  else  —  cornmand- 
I  ing  any  one  else,  we  should  have  said,  for 
he  esteemed  himself  as  an  individual  far 
above  the  composer.  So  he  had  written  the 
scrap  of  a  note,  which  he  thrust  into  the 
hand  of  Rodomant,  who  had  not  thrust  it 
back  to  him. 

Geraldi,  though  actually  a  poor  person, 
was  not  actually  without  money,  for  as  it 
has  been  said,  if  one  will  not  work,  one 
must  accept,  beg,  borrow,  or  steal.  Only 
the  first  of  these  alternatives  was  obligatory 
in  Geraldi's  case,  because  of  Geraldine's 
simple  generosity;  she  thought  no  more  of 
giving  him  money  than  of  spending  it  her- 
self. It  was  once  a  week  or  so,  "  Geraldi, 
don't  you  Avant  some  money  ?  I  am  sure 
you  must,  darling !  I  have  spent  all  I  had 
in  7n>j  purse."  Then  she  would  pull  his  out 
of  his  pocket  and  fill  it,  or  if  she  found  no 
purse  there,  fill  her  own  and  put  that  into 
his  pocket,  and  add  another  to  her  lieap  of 
portemonnaies  that  very  day.  Geraldi  felt 
as  though  it  were  no  degradation  to  receive 
money  from  her,  quite  ignorant  of  the  Eng- 
glish  laws  on  the  subject  of  a  wife's  prop- 
erty ;  he  felt  it  was  hers,  and  so  proper  for 
him,  her  blood,  to  accept,  though  he  would 
have  perished  before  he  touched  a  farthing 
from  Albany's  hand.  But  he  did  ni,t  spend 
this  money  ;  from  the  moment  he  had  de- 
termined "to  enfranchise  himself  socially,  he 
had  set  it  aside  religiously,  with  a  growing 
interest,  worthy  of  a  miser  or  a  niilhon- 
naire. 

Before  Geraldine  had  left  town,  she  had 
offered  him  more  than  she  had  ever  done 
before,  and  he  had  refused  it,  exhibiting  his 
privily-hoarded  store  with  a  kind  of  grim 
glee,  for  he  considered  such  a  store  all-suffi- 
cient for  every  emergency,  even  of  an  art 
career.  So  positively  refusing,  Geraldine 
could  not  make  hira  take  any  more  money, 
for  his  will  Avas  as  much  stronger  than  hers 
as  his  intellect  was  weaker,  and  she  left  him, 
inly  wondering  herself  how  he  had  contrived 
to  save  it,  when  she  had  spent  twice  as 
much  in  the  same  time  —  not  on  her  dress, 
for  that  was  ever  simple,  but  in  buying  the 
costliest  and  most  charming  presents  for 
Diamid,  such  as  could  be  of  no  possible  use 
to  such  a  man,  or,  indeed,  a  man  at  all,  and 
in  throwing  away  coin  on  every  crowd  of 
beggars,  or  single  beggar,  that  beset  her 
carriage,  and  whom  her  servants  dared  not 
drive  away  for  fear  of  receiving  their  dis- 
charge—  for  by  all  servants  who  had  ever 


RUMOR. 


65 


lived  with  him,  Albany  was  literally  idolized ; 
a  rather  singular  tribute  to  the  goodness  of 
heart  of  one  whose  development,  whose 
breeding,  and  intellectual  perfectness,  were 
utterly  above  their  comprehension.  Before 
she  left  Geraldi,  however,  Geraldine  charged 
him  to  let  her  know  when  he  wanted  money, 
adding,  "  I  shall  not  tell  Diamid,  because 
you  are  foolish,  and  fancy  he  does  not  like 
you,  but  you  don't  mind  asking  me  for  any 
thing  ;  I  would  take  any  thing  from  you.'" 
This  was  balm  to  Geraldi ;  he  felt  as  though 
he  and  she  had  a  secret  between  them  which 
her  husband  could  not  share. 

In  his  note  to  Rodomant,  Geraldi  had 
touched  his  taste  by  employing  the  fewest 
words :  "  I  am  miserable,  unfortunate  and 
proud.  I  am  Italian,  and  I  wish  to  go  upon 
the  stage.  I  wish  to  learn  of  the  composer 
of  Alarcos,  who  alone  can  teach  such  as  I. 
I  should  like  to  act  Alarcos  ;  may  I  come  to 
see  you  ?  " 

Still  perhaps,  had  Rodomant  received  the 
note  by  post,  or  from  another  hand  than  the 
writer's,  he  would  have  tossed  it  behind  the 
fire,  and  waited  till  a  second  appeal,  attest- 
ing persistency  and  earnestness,  should  be 
made.  But  the  strong  admire  the  strong, 
the  proud  have  ready  sympathy  for  the 
proud,  and,  dare  we  write  it?  man  is  readier, 
more  instant  to  help  men,  than  to  help 
women ;  except  in  cases  which  only  prove 
the  rule.  Many  a  good  man,  with  average 
intelligence,  will  watch  like  a  Avoman  by  the 
sick  bed  of  a  male  friend,  ply  him  Avith  as- 
siduous, if  awkward,  attentions,  and  beguile 
with  never-ending  chat  his  convalescence  ;  — 
when,  woe  to  that  man's  wife,  if  she  lies  half 
an  hour  on  the  sofa,  or  lifts  her  hand  to  her 
throbbing  head  in  his  presence  :  Avoe  to  her, 
for  he  oppresses  —  "  he  shall  rule  over  her." 

When  Rodomant  read  the  note,  he  de- 
cided on  replying  to  it  directly,  and  sent  his 
answer  by  his  mother's  hand,  for  Geraldi 
had  given  no  address,  merely  his  name. 
"  Come,"  said  the  answer,  "  to  this  direction, 
but  tell  no  one  where  I  am,  or  I  will  do 
nothing  for  you,  and  burn  this  bit  of  paper." 
Geraldi,  next  day,  went.  He  was  astonished 
to  find  the  composer  of  Alarcos  in  so  mean 
a  room,  but  the  surprise  was  quenched  in 
s}nn])aihy  when  Rodomant  said,  "  Young 
man,  you  stare  at  my  poor  room,  learn  to 
look  at  the  inhabitant  of  it,  as  God  beholds 
the  soul  through  the  body  which  it  dwells  in. 
I  am  in  debt  to  the  generosity  of  the  noblest 
nature  in  this  or  any  country,  and  I  cannot 
rest,  nor  cease  to  hoard  and  scrape  —  nor 
die,  till  the  debt  is  discharged.  Therefore 
you  perceive,  my  allowing  you  to  take  up 
ever  so  small  portion  of  my  time,  is  charity." 

Geraldi  understood  this  speech,  and  was 
not  made  angry  by  the  beginning  and  the  end 
of  it,  solely  because  he  had,  unconsciously, 
one  point  in  common  with  the  speaker. 
Artless  as  was  the  boy,  and  perfect  in  art 
the  man  in  years  so  feAv  the  older,  they  each 


longed  supremely  for  one  thing  —  ■  ot  the 
same  —  and  both  were  determined  tc  obtain 
it  at  any  price.  Geraldi  nursed  dark 
thoughts  in  his  breast,  Rodomant  only  bright 
ones ;  but  each  had  made  a  compact  with  his 
own  soul  to  feed  those  thoughts  on  hope  anu 
ftiith  till  the  consummation  of  desire  should 
crown  existence. 

In  spite  of  Geraldi's  ignorance  of  German, 
which  he  would  neither  bear  to  hear,  nor 
would  endure  to  learn,  he  and  Rodomant, 
af'er  Avonderfully  brief  practice,  understood 
each  other  well.  The  latter  had  the  faciHty, 
peculiar  to  the  finest  musical  organizations, 
as  well  as  to  those  of  the  genius  linguist,  of 
acquiring  by  acute  ear  and  unfailing  memory, 
a  rapid  conversational,  if  non-grammatical, 
knowledge  of  any  new  language,  the  sweeter, 
and  more  melodious  the  easier,  of  course. 
Besides,  his  necessary  intimacy  with  the  Ital- 
ian text  of  operas  served  him  well,  and  Ge- 
raldi's beautiful  Tuscan  accent  helped  hira 
further. 

Though  he  said,  before  trying  Geraldi's 
voice,  "  You  are  to  sing  to  me  to  gain,  if 
you  deserve  it,  a  certificate  ;  I  am  no  actor, 
and  by  an  actor  you  must  be  trained  ; "  yet 
Avhen  he  had  heard  it,  he  added,  "  No  one 
else  would  take  the  trouble  to  cultivate  your 
voice,  of  which  there  is  very  little,  though  it 
is  very  good ;  nor  is  yet  ripe.  School-cul- 
ture Avould  ruin  it  and  its  prospects  ;  I  shall 
tone  and  mature  it  —  that  is  your  only 
chance.  You  have  a  person  for  an  actor, 
therefore  it  matters  the  less  about  your 
voice,  so  long  as  the  most  is  made  of  what 
there  is.  But  I  shall  not  teach  you  unless 
you  do  exactly  as  I  order  you  ;  no  one  must 
know  you  come,  or  I  should  have  them  all 
coming ;  nor  must  you  make  a  fool  of  your- 
self, and  boast  you  know  me,  or  I  will  never 
see  you  again.  You  must  take  me  when  I 
can  trouble  myself  about  you  ;  if  I  am  busy 
you  must  wait ;  if  I  am  out,  stop  till  I  re- 
turn, for  your  time  is  of  no  value,  and  mine 
is  more  precious  than  gold." 

Geraldi  approved  of  this  treatment,  and  as 
for  the  gypsy  style  in  which  the  refined  be- 
ing dwelt,  nothing  suited  his  vagrant  tastes 
so  well ;  so  after  a  day  or  two  he  almost  al- 
ways lived  in  the  artist's  attic,  from  ten  at 
morning  till  ten  at  night,  eating  his  bread 
and  olives,  or  a  mess  of  maccaroni,  paid  for 
and  cooked  by  himself,  while  Rodomant  ' 
swallowed  his.  handful  of  oat-meal  biscuit,  ► 
and  the  coffee,  which  Avas  his  only  luxury*, 
for  each  cup  of  Avhich  he  counted  a  certain 
number  of  beans,  and  which  tasted  like  coffee 
served  up  to  an  Arab  chief. 

Geraldine  had  not  time  to  miss  Geraldi 
during  these  exped^ticns,  for  he  did  not  take 
one  until  the  day  she  left  London,  and  he 
said  nothing  of  them  in  his  letters.  He 
certainly  found  that  his  master  gave  him 
enough  to  do,  and  this  Avas  a  happ)'  circum 
stance  in  more  respects  than  one  for  him, 
that  constant  occupation,  and  his  strong,  if 


66 


RUMOR. 


unconscionable,  love  for  his  cousin,  pre- 
serving for  him  his  boyhood  green  amidst 
temptations  which  are  the  most  tremendous 
peril  to  the  purity  and  promise  of  his  age. 
He  had  to  work  all  day,  for  Kodomant 
steing  him  well  in  health,  and  wholly  unim- 
paired in  nervous  energy,  had  no  compunc- 
tion in  so  filling  up  his  time:  his  actual  lessons 
always  short,  but  ever  infinitely  suggestive, 
were  also  few  ;  for  the  master,  if  he  worked 
the  pupil,  worked  himself  thrice  as  hard,  as 
onl}-  a  proud  person  braced  by  gratitude  can 
Avork. 

Gei'aldi  had  been  living  this  life,  intense 
for  the  brain,  and  wholesomely  dietetic  for 
the  heart,  just  three  weeks,  which  had  passed 
like  months,  when  he  received  Geraldine's 
wildest,  saddest,  and  most  complaining  let- 
ter, her  answer  to  his  received  the  morning 
of  her  self-betrayal.  She  had  taken  two 
days  to  write  it,  days  of  weakness  and  mental 
self-exaltation,  the  slight  inward  delirium  of 
a  secret  fever.  She  had  poured  out  the  whole 
melancholy  of  her  determined  desolation, 
the  heart's  blood  of  her  lacerated  pride. 
More  and  more  unpardonal^le  —  unless  she 
had  actually  lost  the  reins  of  her  mind, 
which  was  not  the  case,  seeing  that  she  could 
write  with  complete  coherence  —  she  told 
Geraldi  her  husband's  mild  remonstrance,  so 
gently  uttered,  but  of  which  she  contrived 
to  convey  a  harsh  impression,  even  cold. 
And  Geraldi,  wliile  he  wept  hot  tears  over 
the  sheet,  triumphed,  for  he  thought  she  had 
at  last  confided  to  him  the  secret  of  her  un- 
happiness  in  her  marriage  ;  that  possibility 
he  had  jealously  persisted  in  till  it  became  a 
fact  in  his  futh.  He  was  in  a  mood  in  which 
exultation  literally  brimmed  over  the  measure 
of  his  existence  for  the  hour ;  he  felt  as 
though,  if  he  could  not  confide  in  some  one, 
liis  heart  must  burst  —  a  rash  and  ruth- 
less mood,  which  can  no  more  spend  itself 
without  an  explosion  than  can  a  thunder- 
cloud. 

He  read  and  re-read  the  letter  from  morn- 
ing post-time  until  noon,  then  folding  it  up 
and  laying  it  on  his  heart,  he  rushed  to  his 
new  acquaintance,  breathless  and  panting, 
and  made  as  much  noise  on  entering  the 
attic  as  an  Italian  can  ever  make.  Rodo- 
mant  was  writing  in  the  hot  August  calm  — 
not  a  sigh  crept  through  the  open  window  to 
flutter  his  paper  —  not  an  earthly  reminis- 
cence trembled  through  his  creative  trance. 
He  was  evolving  the  most  intellectual  and 
imaginative  form  of  music  for  a  single  in- 
strument —  the  sonata  —  and  for  the  instru- 
ment he  had  aff'ected  to  despise  as  belonging 
of  right  to  women.  Perhaps  it  was  for  that 
very  reason  he  had  lately  taken  it  to  his 
heart ;  but  however  this  might  be,  it  was 
only  a  few  weeks  since  he  had  essayed  the 
publication  of  such  a  composition  with  sud- 
den and  complete  success  —  even  though 
town  was  empty,  for  his  publisher  transmit- 
ted it    to   every  sea-side    city   and   country 


place.  For  as  the  most  beautiful  poetry 
sometimes  sells  in  a  fit,  so  does  the  most 
beautiful  music  for  single  interpretation, 
only  it  must  be  the  7nost  beautiful.  There- 
fore the  artist  was  once  moi-e  free,  his  high- 
est faculties  refreshed  by  long  rest,  and  his 
intellect  impregnated  with  that  most  ethereal 
of  inspirations  —  a  pure,  ideal  passion, 
Avhich  even  though  it  shall  disperse  like  a 
rose-hued  mist  of  morning,  shall  have  ful- 
filled its  mission  in  the  loveliness  with  which 
it  purified  the  sense. 

It  had  always  irritated  to  extremity  Rodo- 
mant's  temper  to  prepare  easy  tune-fooleries 
for  fashicmable  fingers  ;  while  doing  so,  if 
he  was  disturbed  or  spoken  to,  it  had  been 
as  though  a  chained  lion  were  stirred  up 
with  a  whip.  But  writing  as  he  pleased  and 
approved,  soothed  him  as  oil  glides  over  wa- 
ter ;  his  humor  grew  compassionate  and  con- 
descending ;  with  a  kind  of  hero-superiority 
he  smiled  on  men  as  children.  How,  then, 
upon  a  youth  in  expectancy  and  unreason- 
ableness still  a  child  ?  He  beneficently  nod- 
ded at  Geraldi,  but  motioned  to  him  to  wait 
awhile,  and  so  Geraldi  meant  to  do,  but  his 
condition  of  selfish  excitement  made  it  im- 
possible for  him  to  attend  even  to  the  easy 
exercises  in  the  rudiments  of  harmony, 
which  Rodomant  set  him  to  do  in  his  spare 
moments.  Nor  could  Geraldi  sit  still ;  his 
heart  boomed  rather  than  beat  in  his  ears; 
he  went  to  the  window  longing  for  some 
strong  wind  to  blow,  then  walked  away  from 
it  and  continued  pacing  up  and  down  the 
room.  Rodomant  was  conscious  of  his  un- 
easy motions  all  through  his  own  moonlight 
fancies,  for  a  serene  ecstatic  serenade  was 
rippling  silently  beneath  his  pen.  He  even 
spoke  ;  his  own  voice  never  interrupted  nor 
disturbed  his  own  thoughts. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you  that  you 
are  idling  the  best  hours  of  the  day?"  he 
asked,  still  writing,  and  yet  listening  to  the 
still  music  in  his  brain. 

Geraldi  groaned.  "  I  can't  work,  I  can't 
sit  down  ;  I  am  miserable  to  madness,  and  so 
is  she ! " 

Rodomant  heard  these  words,  and  under- 
stood them  in  the  true  sense  of  tlie  poet- 
musician  ;  he  thought  Geraldi  deep  in  some 
boy's  dream,  a  sort  of  fragment  of  the 
same  rainbow  that  framed  his  owm  concep- 
tions. 

"  David  charmed  Saul  when  he  was  mad. 
I  will  play  to  you,"  said  Rodomant,  and  went 
to  the  piano.  Wildly  paced  Geraldi  up  and 
down  the  room,  while  the  first  movement  of 
the  sonata  sounded ;  one  of  stormy  but  sus- 
tained yearning,  well  answering  to  Geraldi's 
mood.  But  when  the  slow  serenade,  ineft'a- 
bly  sweet,  began,  divinely  played,  for  the 
composer  was  in  love  with  its  loveliness, 
then  all  at  once  Geraldi's  heart  sank,  melted 
in  the  m'dst  of  him  ;  he  went  up  close  to  the 
instrument  and  laid  upon  it  his  head;  he 
uttered  a  low  soft  cry,  then  burst  into  tears. 


RUMOR. 


67 


The  tribute  enchanted  Rodomant ;  and  that 
he  might  be  assured  the  emotion  he  saw  was 
the  effect  of  his  playing,  he  asked  Geraldi 
what  was  the  matter?  in  a  voice  he  had  ne^er 
used  to  him  before.  Geraldi,  won  like  the 
magnetic  patient  by  the  gently-waving  hand, 
burst  forth  in  frantic  high-toned  language, 
which  passion  made  poetical.  Rodomant 
listened,  playing  on  his  melodious  passion, 
the  delicious  under-flowing  current  of  his 
consciouMiess,  that  he  whom  he  deemed  a 
child  was  ennobled  by  passion  too.  Alas ! 
for  passion,  when  love  in  its  loveliest  form, 
the  self-sacrificial,  is  not  there.  Of  course 
Rodomant  heard  the  story — the  whole  story, 
concentrated  as  passion  only  can  condense, 
in  Geraldi's  own  way.  Geraldine,  his  cousin, 
he  adored  —  she  was  unhappy  in  her  mar- 
riage ;  and  if  he  expressed  not,  he  implied, 
M'hat  he  was  determined  to  believe,  that  she 
too  loved  him.  Further,  Geraldi  implied  not, 
but  fully  expressed,  that  she  had  written  him 
a  letter  to  tell  him  she  was  unhappy.  And 
he  tore  the  letter  from  his  bosom,  only  did 
not  read  it,  for  Rodomant  shook  his  head. 
Still  from  under  his  relenting  fingers  flowed 
the  melodious  invocation  ;  he  listened  in  a 
dream.  And  does  not  the  dreamer  speak  in 
sleep  sometimes  ?  May  one  not  question 
him  and  receive  an  answer  ?  But,  alas ! 
Geraldi  knew  not  of  the  slumber  of  the  soul 
entranced  by  the  enchantments  of  art,  which 
he  only  sensuously  perceived,  and  which  did 
but  excite  him  to  selfish  introspection. 
"  Why  did  she  marry  him,  if  she  loved 
you  ?  "  asked  the  dreamer,  speaking  in  that 
sleep  in  which  tlie  bodily  eyes  are  open. 

"  He  made  her —  he  was  powerful,  and  she 
was  ambitious,  though  I  did  not  know  it 
then,  but  she  has  shown,  it  since.  Yes,  he 
made  her  marry  him,  she  was  so  delicate  and 
innocent ;  but  she  would  have  shown  me  her 
love  had  there  been  time.  She  shows  it  me 
now,  too  late.  And  he  is  too  old  for  her. 
Every  body  at  his  age  has  been  in  love  ;  of 
course  he  has  loved  a  woman  who  would  not 
accept  him,  because  she  did  not  love  him." 

"  It  was  not  because  she  did  not  love  him," 
murmured  the  dreamer  in  a  low  but  strangely 
eager  voice,  still  playing,  but  now  more 
dreamily  than  ever,  for  the  last  few  words  of 
Geraldi  had  half  restored  consciousness  of 
Fact,  though  consciousness  of  Time  and 
Place  still  slept:  —  the  finger  drooped,  soon 
there  would  be  silence.  At  that  instant,  a 
full-grown  sagacity,  terrible  in  its  strength 
and  pain,  was  born  within  Geraldi.  He  had 
always  suspected  there  was  a  mystery  —  this 
man  knew  it,  and  should  tell  him,  but  how  ? 
Would  there  be  time  ?  for  this  same  new  in- 
stinct told  him  that  the  speaker  knew  not 
what  he  uttered. 

"  Yes,"  said  Geraldi,  "  of  course  she  loved 
bim ;  something  prevented  her ;  she  was 
obliged  to  refuse.  She  told  you  too,  then  ?  " 
he  added,  with  wild  invention,  hazarding  any 
thing  to  get  at  the  truth. 


"  Yes,  she  told  me  tJiat  nigJif  —  I  made  her 
tell  me.  But,"  cried  Rodomant,  waking  full 
and  suddenly  as  a  sleeper  when  the  opened 
shutter  lets  in  the  sunny  blaze,  "  it  was 
strange  tliat  she  should  tell  a  boy  like  you. 
My  lady,  I  thought  I  had  your  secret  all  to 
myself,  as  well  as  your  goodness  and  gener- 
osity to  remember  always.  I  am  sorry,  angry, 
that  she  told  ijou." 

"Her  goodness  —  lier  generosity,"  thought 
Geraldi,  who  suddenly  remembered  that  Ro- 
domant always  spoke  of  Lady  Delucy  as  his 
benefactress  —  nay,  Rodomant  ha/l  confided 
to  the  boy  the  whole  story  of  the  opera.  Ge- 
raldi threw  his  last  die.  "  Lady  Delucy  did 
not  tell  me  —  I  guessed  it.  Every  body 
must  have  guessed  it  who  saw  them  ;  but 
you  were  not  in  England." 

Geraldi,  as  we  well  know,  had  come  to 
England  precisely  when  Rodomant  did,  buflie 
was  certain  Rodomant  did  not  knoAV  it.  The 
last  moon-ray  melted  from  the  mood  of  the 
awakened  sleeper  ;  he  exclaimed,  "  My  lady 
no  longer  if  she  cannot  keep  a  secret  —  only 
a  woman  like  other  women." 

"  It  is  Lady  Delucy,"  thought  Geraldi. 

It  is  said  that  no  secret  is  safe  with  one 
intoxicated.    Had  Lady  Delucy  known  this  ? 


CHAPTER  XVL 

There  is  perhaps  no  kind  of  suffering  so 
intense,  because  none  so  palpable  and  real, 
as  a  reaction  of  illness  purely  physical,  after 
excessive  mental  excitement.  Geraldine 
found  this.  After  her  attack,  whose  danger 
she  apprehended  as  little  as  she  fully  appre- 
ciated its  discomfort,  she  ceased  to  find  it 
interesting  to  be  ill,  for  before  it  she  had 
esteemed  herself  ill,  and  self-interest  had 
been  even  a  romantic  alleviation  of  her  dis- 
tress. However,  her  long  reply  to  Geraldi's 
last  letter  was  the  last  of  her  intellectual  ex- 
ertions ;  after  that  was  written  and  despatch- 
ed, she  sank  down  utterly  as  she  would  have 
done  before,  but  for  the  exigent  deman(' 
upon  her  sympathy  of  his  woful  and  wild 
appeal.  She  came"  down  stairs  no  moie; 
and  though  she  did  not  confess  lioio  she  had 
suffered,  she  denied  no  longer  her  suffering 
to  her  husband,  or  rather  she  confessed  to 
confusion  of  mind,  and  to  nerves  which  would 
not  respond  to  what  social  routine  imposed 
upon  them.  He,  too  happy  to  see  her  calm 
again,  for  the  calm  of  exhaustion  chased  the 
hectic  from  her  cheek  and  the  fire  from  her 
•eye,  rested  ever  by  her  side ;  for  a  little 
while  again  she  nestled  to  his  heart,  and  if 
not  ecstasy,  certainly  a  transient  peace  pos- 
sessed him.  It  may  well  be  wondered  at 
why  he  sought  for  her  no  medical  advice. 
But  there  was  for  him  this  large  excuse  — 
one  founded  too  upon  the  experience  of  a 


68 


RUMOR. 


life  more  than  twice  as  long,  and  to  the  full 
as  vital  as  her  OAvn  —  that  he  had  consulted 
on  his  own  account  almost  every  European 
doctor  with  never-failinf^  unsuccess.  And, 
except  for  exact  symptoms  of  actual  disease, 
he  had  lost  whatever  confidence  his  youth 
might  have  confessed  to  in  any  European 
doctor  whatsoever. 

Could  he  have  carried  Geraldine  on  that 
famed  square  of  carpet  bought  by  Prince 
Houssain,  to  the  lap  of  the  Arabian  Desert, 
or  th»>  heart  of  the  city  of  Damascus,  he 
would  have  called  to  her  side  the  fathers  of 
ti-aditional  pharmacy  who  preserve  it  pure  as 
at  its  source,  or  the  physician  whose  sage 
glance  is  knowledge,  whose  magnetic  touch 
is  life.  But  this  England  !  It  must  be  told 
that  Albany,  though  he  bore  transplantation 
as  well  as  any  other  exotic  which  is  carefully 
conserved  with  all  due  appliances  of  artificial 
heat  and  screening  from  the  air,  yet  was  no 
more  the  Albany  he  woidd  have  been  had 
his  forefathers  never  left  their  native  Orient, 
than  that  rose  of  the  London  Pantheon,  over 
whose  poverty  of  scent  the  Persian  Prince 
wept  a  few  short  summers  since,  was  the 
same  rose  which  in  his  divine  native  air 
throws  up  a  perfume  which  might  i)ierce  the 
region  of  the  sun  which  wooed  it  forth,  and 
one  of  whose  tears  distilled  and  sealed  in 
crystal  will  sweeten  a  drawer  for  a  quarter 
of  a  century.  And  this  England,  Albany 
despised  and  hated  —  yes,  hated,  though  he 
hated  neither  living  man  nor  woman,  nor  in- 
sect, nor  reptile  in  it.  No  doctor,  nor  school- 
man, no  ])hysiologist  has  ever  dwelt  suffi- 
ciently upon  the  consequence  of  climate. 
Yet  a  change  from  a  climate  to  which  one 
ha*;  been,  not  horn  perhaps,  but  assimilated 
by  hundreds  of  ancestral  births  ;  a  change 
from  such  climate  to  one  its  contrary  —  from 
the  South  Australian  to  the  Hyperborean  — 
from  the  Syrian  to  the  Saxon,  must  Avork 
ruthless  evil;  the  heart  will  chill  till  its 
natural  charities  are  frosted  over,  the  brain 
will  pai-tially  collapse,  its  action  ever  in  ex- 
tremes. Therefore  did  the  change  from  a 
natural  to  an  artificial  climate  and  condition 
render  Albany  unjust,  more  especially  as  his 
intellect,  transcending  all  others  round  him, 
lifu'il  him  out  of  the  mists  of  conventional- 
ism, and  showed  him  man  rather  as  he  is, 
than  as  he  icoulcl  be  :  for  many  and  many  an 
erring  soul  and  feeble  mind  aspires  and  longs 
to  be  that  it  is  not,  yet  icUl  be,  shall  be,  as 
suitly  as  there  is  truth  in  God,  and  as  the 
heavens  are  higher  than  the  earth. 

But  this  is  little  to  the  purpose,  except  as 
it  conceims  Geraldine.  She  was  now  — 
A\liile  her  husband  believed  her  in  a  fair  way 
to  recover  at  rest,  all  the  beauty  of  perfect 
health  —  very  nearly  at  the  point  to  die.  She 
knew  it  not  herself,  had  she  known  she 
W(yuld  probably  have  cared  little  ;  for  it  is  a 
liiQt  that  the  happiest-lived,  if  pure,  di'ead 
d'=-:Tth  no  more  than  sleep,  and  to  them  it 
seems  to  come  as  naturally  and  unexpectedly.  \ 


However,  the  disease  wnich  had  entered  a\ 
an  avenue  so  minute,  that  only  she  herself 
had  perceived  it,  not  knowing  it  as  a  disease, 
gained  ground  rapidly  as  it  only  does  in  ex- 
ceptional cases  ;  it  kept  secret  its  prepara- 
tions as  a  volcano,  and  as  silently  and  mildly 
smouldered.  That  which  was  to  be  death  to 
Geraldine's  baby-happiness,  her  baby-fame, 
was  to  let  her  free  to  find  the  discii)Hne 
Avhich  should  alone  develop  her  womanhood. 
But  for  what  happened,  she  would  have  died 
"  an  infant,"  in  years  as  well  as  knowledge. 

It  was  the  second  day  Geraldine  had  re- 
mained up  stairs,  not  always  lying  down,  for 
that  oppressed  her  more,  though  she  made 
so  light  of  the  oppression  that  she  did  not 
mention  it  to  Diamid.  But  she  rested  on 
his  arm,  she  kissed  him",  was  quiet  to  be 
kissed  herself,  played  with  flowers  and  ar- 
ranged them,  felt,  oh,  how  glad  !  that  she 
had  no  book  to  write.  She  determined  to 
forget  Helen  Jordan,  the  scene  on  the  ter- 
race, Diamid's  words,  even  her  repetition  of 
all  to  Geraldi ;  in  short,  she  was  in  that  most 
exquisite  but  most  dangerous  mood  of  her 
temperament  —  life  was  ebbing  sofjjy,  like 
little  melting  waves  of  a  receding  tide.  She 
ate  as  little  as  usual,  for  she,  with  her  Italian 
frugality,  entirely  sympathized  with  Diamid's 
Oriental  temperance,  and  the  latter  prevent- 
ed him  from  perceiving  that  in  reality  she 
needed  more  and  more  nourishing  food  than 
she  had  ever  required  in  her  life. 

The  siesta  of  sickness !  when  after  the 
long  weary  morning  the  afternoon  drops 
heavy  on  the  lids,  needful  sleep,  from  which 
the  sick  one  wakes  again  to  weariness  :  for 
through  the  mist  that  wrapped  the  half- 
closed  brain,  uneasy  visions  rise  like  ghosts, 
and  the  torpid  heart  cannot  stir  enough  to 
scatter  them  !  How  unlike  the  siesta  of  the 
southern  beauty,  from  whose  sweet  rest  oi 
sweeter  dreams  she  s])rings  with  dewy  warmth 
upon  her  brow;  or  the  noon-slumber  of  the 
tender  growing  babe,  from  which  it  stretches 
to  its  home  of  milken  promise.  So  weary 
was  Geraldine  when  she  fell  asleep,  wearier 
in  her  dreams,  though  they  were  not  awful  — 
she  was  yet  herself,  and  her  memories  were 
vet  too  young.  Her  husband  watching  by 
iier,  steadied  his  thoughts  by  a  strong  effort 
of  volition,  fearing  magnetically  to  excite 
her  ;  indeed,  tried  not  to  think  of  her  at  all,^ 
but  mused  on  the  political  conditions  which 
were  to  her  an  unknown  world,  in  which  he, 
half  his  time,  was  forced  to  exist.  So,  as  it 
often  happens  in  illness,  when  one  is  not 
actually  in  the  grasping  poAver  of  pain, 
Geraldine  dreamed  of  her  childhood,  her 
youngest  girlhood,  and  of  Geraldi.  "Wearily 
she  wandered  in  old  places,  where  he  had 
always  been,  —  strangely  enough,  she  could 
not  find  them  there.  And  noAV,  in  her  sleep, 
half-consciously  she  wanted  him  —  sick  per- 
sons of  her  temperament  always  desire  the 
presence  not  so  much  of  the  person  they  love 
the  best,  as  that  of  the  person  they  love  the 


RUMOR. 


69 


best  of  tlieir  own  blood.  Most  long  after 
their  mothers  —  Geraldine  was  to  her  mother 
half  a  stranger  —  but  she  had  grown  ujj  with 
Geraldi,  and  knew  him  better  than  all  the 
world.  Not  that  she  could  have  endured  the 
loss  of  her  husband's  society  and  strong  sup- 
p(>rting  solicitude,  but  she  required  Geraldi's 
as  well. 

Now   Diamid,   though    he   possessed  the 

t>ower  of  being  jealous,  which  all  the  most 
oving  natures  own,  was  too  sagacious  ever 
to  suspect  cause  for  it  where  none  existed, 
and  too  generous  to  be  angry  with  those 
who  were  jealous  of  him.  So  when  Geral- 
dine awoke  and  said,  "  I  have  been  dream- 
ing about  Geraldi,  I  thought  I  was  at 
home,  I  mean  in  Italy,  and  that  I  could  not 
find  him  there.  I  am  afraid  he  is  ill,  for  I 
have  not  heard  from  him  to-day,"  Albany 
only  thought  of  saving  her  distress  and  sus- 
pense. "  Nothing  is  easier,"  he  said,  "  than 
to  hear  to-night  before  bedtime,  and  then 
you  will  sleep  more  tranquilly.  Geraldi  is 
sure  to  be  at  home,  for  he  knows  no  one  in 
Londou,  or  near  it.  I  will  carry  a  message 
to  the  nearest  telegraph  office,  and  wait  for 
the  reply  myself;  as  I  shall  send  it  in  Ital- 
ian, it  will  be  the  most  secure  plan."^ 

"  You  are  too  good,  too  kind,"  said  Ger- 
aldine ;  "  and  will  you  say  that  I  have  been 
rather  ill,  but  am  much  better  now  ?  " 

Diamid  carried  the  words  in  his  mind,  as 
those  c^'  a  nervous  person  whose  nerves  are 
weakened  by  excitement,  nothing  more. 
The  telegraph  office  was  four  miles  off.  Al- 
bany drove  there  in  his  brougham.  It  was 
close  to  the  station,  and  after  delivering  the 
message,  he  walked  to  the  platform  till  it 
was  possible  for  the  reply  to  return.  The 
afternoon  express  was  due,  the  bell  rang, 
the  throbs  and  thunder  of  the  train  ap- 
proached,  it  stopped.  One  person  got  out 
of  a  second-class  carriage  —  Geraldi.  He 
did  not  look  ill,  not  paler  nor  more  sullen 
than  usual,  but  more  resolute.  Albany,  de 
lighted  for  the  first  time  to  behold  him,  rai 
up  to  him,  holding  out  his  hand  —  "  Why, 
Geraldi !  I  had  just  sent  a  message  to  town 
after  you;  my  wife. was  fretting  because  she 
had  not  heard  this'  morning  from  her  brother 
—  she  is  a  little  tired,  but  you  will  do  her 
more  good  than  any  thing  or  any  body, 
let  us  go  directly.  Give  Lawrence  your 
carpet-bag." 

"  No,  I  thank  you,  Mr.  Albany,"  answered 
Geraldi,  in  the  tone  of  a  second  in  a  duel, 
for  the  "my  wife,"  and  the  "brother,"  added 
insult  to  injury  in  his  esteem.  "  No,  I  thank 
you.  I  shall  be  at  Hope  Park  but  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  after  you,  and  you  can  ])repare 
Geraldine,  lest  my  sudden  coming  should 
alarm  her.  I  was  certain,  from  the  tone  of 
her  last  letter,  that  she  was  ill."  So  Geraldi 
stepped  into  a  railway  fly,  to  which  was  har- 
nessed one  (^f  those  half  anatomies  of  horses, 
which  make  one  wonder  whether  all  the  re- 
spectable horses  were  sent  to  clover  in  the 


Elysian  Fields,  upon  the  abolition  of  mail- 
coaches.  Albany  said  no  more,  but  stepped 
into  his  brougham  and  drove  ofl';  for  tiie 
first  time  his  sweet  temper,  "  sore  "  a?  it  was 
"  with  tenderness,"  was  ruffled  by  the  boy's 
behavior  —  what  right  had  he  to  speak  of 
the  "tone"  of  her  letter,  and  above  all,  what 
complaints  had  she  made  ?  How  could  she 
seek  for  sympathy  any  w^ere  but  in  his 
heart,  which  ached"  with  its  excess,  ana  wiih 
the  excess  of  love,  if  of  happiness  no  longer  ? 
Yet  so  unselfish  was  he,  that  when  on  telling 
her  of  his  meeting  with  Geraldi,  Geraldine 
smiled,  he  was  really  glad  and  thankful  the 
boy  had  come. 

"  I  shall  leave  you  with  him,"  said  he, 
finally,  "  while  I  go  down  to  dinner,  for  I 
know  Geraldi  never  will  dine  late,  and  per- 
haps he  will  persuade  you  to  eat  more  than 
I  could  yesterday." 

Just  as  the  dressing-bell  rang,  Geraldine's 
maid  knocked-,  and  being  called  in,  an- 
nounced that  a  young  gentleman  wished  to 
see  her.  She  directed  that  he  should  be 
shown  up,  saying  in  an  aside  to  Diamid,  "It 
is  my  cousin  "  —  lest  the  maid  should  not 
show  him  proper  resj^ect. 

And  Diamid  retreated  into  his  dressing- 
room  and  closed  the  door,  not  sorry  to  escape 
the  sight  of  their  first  embrace  —  not  be- 
cause he  was  jealous,  but  it  would  have  made 
him  sad. 

Geraldi  entered  —  not  rushing  in  —  the 
consciousness  of  his  errand  made  him  feel 
manlier  than  even  before,  if  not  with  an  hon- 
orable manhood:  though,  to  do  him  justice, 
he  really  was  too  selfishly  absorbed  not  to 
think  himself  the  most  unselfish  and  honor- 
able of  men.  Geraldine  threw  her  arms 
innocently  round  him,  but  he  felt  how  feeble 
was  their  pressure ;  in  an  instant  he  felt  sure 
she  was  ill.  He  saw  the  difference  in  her 
sin^ce  their  short  separation ;  he  recollected 
on  a  sudden  that  when  they  were  leaving 
Italy,  just  after  her  marriage,  her  grand- 
mother had  said,  with  a  half-ominous  shake 
of  her  head,  "  If  England  does  not  suit  her 
health,  which  is  all  I  fear,  you  must  send  her 
back  to  me."  And  Diamid  had  exultantly 
nodded,  so  radiant  at  that  moment  had  been 
Geraldine's  bloom. 

"  Oh,  to  get  her  back  to  Italy,"  thought 
the  boy;  "then  if  I  told  her,  she  would 
never  come  back  to  him  again.  But  there 
would  be  none  to  bear  me  witness,  as  there 
is  here;  perhaps,  she  would  not  believe  it  — 
not  because  she  really  cares  for  him,  but  be- 
cause she  is  so  proud.  She  shall  hear  it  — 
I  must  tell  her;  oh!  will  she  believe  it?'' 
He  stooped  to  her  ear,  and  whispered,  while 
Geraldine  still  softly  clasped  him. 

"  Where  is  Mr.  Albany,  angela  mia  ?  " 

"  He  is  gone  down  to  dinner." 

"AVhat!  he  left  you  alone'?  how  cold,  how 
cruel !  " 

•'  Hush,  Geraldi,  he  went  down  on  purpose 
i  that  you  and  I  might  be  alone  together — he 


70 


RUMOR. 


said  you  would  do  me  good,  and  so  you  will ; 
now  tell  me  every  thing  that  has  happened 
to  you  since  yesterday.  And  I  will  tell 
you " 

"No,  let  me  speak  first,"  said  Geraldi, 
in  a  voice  singularly  clear  and  calm  for 
him. 

"  What  can  you  have  to  tell  me  ?  "  Ger- 
alil'ne  thought  of  her  poor  book,  the  embers 
of  her  author's  pride  flashed  out  a  gleam,  its 
fii  e  was  not  yet  spent.  He  had  heard  some- 
tliiTig  triumphant — he  ha'd  come  on  purpose, 
there  could  be  no  other  reason.  "  "What 
have  I  to  say?  Oh,  Geraldine,  listen,  listen! 
At  las  you  will  know  me,  know  all  I  have 
endured  for  you,  and  will  thank  me  for  the 
truth,  for  you  ai-e  a  Geraldi,  brave  as  well  as 
proud." 

He  flung  himself  on  his  knees :  a  false 
heroism,  a  false  enthusiasm,  filled  and  fired 
him  —  there  was  excuse  for  him,  as  there  is 
for  most  who  err,  and  for  soihe  who  fall,  but 
woe  for  the  consequences  of  selfishness  ;  woe 
for  him  who  shall  offend  one  of  those  little 
ones,  whose  inexperience  and  want  of  disci- 
pline have  too  long  kept  them  children. 
Geraldi  was  no  child,  but  a  most  precocious 
youth ;  he  knew  more  than  she  did,  though 
he  was  not  more  wise.  A  sickening  suspi- 
cion of  some  evil  unknown,  more  terrible 
than  any  comprehended,  seized  Geraldine. 
Had  Geraldi  known  the  precise  character  of 
her  illness,  it  is  but  justice  to  say  that,  while 
he  would  have  moved  heaven  and  earth  to 
get  her  back  to  Italy,  he  would  have  left 
unsaid  every  syllable  of  the  words  which 
were  burning  up  from  hi-,  heart.  But  Geral- 
dine could  not  speak,  except  in  a  low,  quiet 
whisper,  to  entreat  him  to  tell  her  all  he 
meant,  at  once ;  she  felt  that  long  sus])ense 
would  bring  on  just  what  had  bef  illen  her 
when  Helen  Jordan  shocked  her.  The  soft 
flutter  of  her  heart  began  again,  its  small 
pulse  beat  countlessly  fast,  but  Geraldi  knew 
it  not ;  he  thought  her  calmer  and  stronger 
for  his  presence.  He  put  one  arm  round 
her,  as  she  sa:  nearly  upright  against  the 
high-piled  sofa-cushioi  s  :  but  he  turned  his 
head  away  with  an  instirct  he  ought  to  have 
■ittend'^d  to  —  he  did  not  wish  to  see  the 
expression  of  her  face  while  he  spoke.  He 
told  all,  feeling  as  though  his  own  secret 
were  worthless,  having  discovered  the  value 
of  an.other''s ;  he  i,.ated  his  struggles  long 
past,  his  resolve  to  depend  no  longer  even 
upon  her,  and  his  decision  to  go  upon  the 
stage.  Every  minute  incident  of  visits  to 
the  attic  of  the  artist,  their  habits  when  to- 
gether, their  conversations,  in  which  some- 
times mingled  Lady  Delucy's  name.  The 
only  departure,  if  not  from  truth,  from  fiict, 
Avas  tliat  when  Geraldi  came  to  the  point,  his 
confession  of  his  own  misery,  and  Geraldine's 
supposed  wrongs,  he  swerved  from  the  actual 
recollection.  Instead  of  saying  that  Rodo- 
mant  was  playing  when  he  spoke,  and  that 
after  all  he  hud  but  remai-ked  di-eamilv,  "  It 


was  not  because  slie  did  not  kve  him,* 
naming  no  one ;  instead  of  recalling  his 
own  inventions,  which  elicited  the  inwardly 
addressed  complaint  of  Rodomant,  Geraldi 
made  an  ungenuine  statement  —  that  the 
artist  had  assured  him,  in  so  many  words, 
that  Diamid  loved  Lady  Delucy,  and  had 
made  to  her  a  proposal  of  marriage,  which 
she  refused. 

Had  Geraldi  possessed  one  spark  of  Ger- 
aldine's poetic  fire,  it  would  have  warmed 
his  words,  but  like  his  determined  mind  — 
not  his  glowing  heart  —  they  Mere  steady, 
and  stern,  and  cold.  So  they  fell  on  Geral- 
dine's heart  like  ice-bolts,  shattering,  crush- 
ing down  into  her  inmost  being,  her  last 
remains  of  the  vital  innocence  of  youth. 
Had  his  words  been  buruingly  eloquent  as 
they  were  boldly  strong,  they  might  have 
melted  on  her  ear,  fusing  themselves  into 
the  radiant  imagery  that  ever  inwrapt  her 
thoughts.  Then  might  the  powers  of  her 
intellect,  challenged  to  prove  the  truth,  have 
sprung  vigorous  from  their  sick  inertia,  have 
wrestled  successfully  with  the  falsehood, 
wrung  from  it  its  sting,  and  left  it  van- 
quished, because  unarmed,  harmless  as  a 
non-existent  enemy,  a  proven  lie.  But 
Geraldi,  by  the  instinct  of  selfish  passion, 
which  imparts  the  power  to  discriminate 
lietween  the  best  means  and  inferior  ones, 
knew  perfectly  well  that  no  raving  would 
convict  her  —  he  had  raved  too  often  and 
unsuccessfully  ;  and  he  avoided  the  grounds 
of  his  own  interest  and  love  with  equal  tact. 
If  it  be  a  fact  that  the  condition  of  bodily 
illness  is  a  torturing  one,  because  unnatural 
—  a  departure  from  jmre  and  perfect  physi- 
cal laws  —  it  is  also  true,  that  in  illness  we 
cs  .mot  reason,  though  reflection  is  even 
more  spontaneous  than  in  health.  The 
memory  weakens,  while  receptivity  of  fresh 
impressions  is  morbidly  intense.  Geraldine, 
therefore,  questioned  not,  but  contemplated 
this  projected  fact  with  vivid  fearfulness ; 
the  valley  of  death's  shadow  held  no  horror 
more  monstrous  yet  impending,  for  the  soul- 
sick  pilgrim.  Nor  had  she  strength  left  to 
fly  from  the  temptation  of  terror,  as  terrible 
as  that  of  sin.  And  so  all  the  love  and  ten- 
derness ineffable  of  her  husband's  invariable 
behavior,  her  destiny  crowned  with  a  devo- 
tion for  which  she  owed  at  least  as  much 
gratitude  to  heaven  as  to  man,  were  as  it 
were  lost  upon  her ;  of  them  her  ren  em- 
brance  darkened,  deadened,  as  the  slarrj 
heaven  beneath  which  drops  and  spreads  a 
universal  cloud.  But  though  she  sinned 
this  time  through  suffering,  there  was  suffer- 
ing as  hers,  and  more  sharply  to  be  felt,  for 
him  who  erred  the  most.  As'  Geraldi  ended 
the  story  which  his  miserable  jealousy  had 
perverted,  he  expected  a  burst  of  that  old 
indignation  for  which  Geraldine,  even  as  a 
child,  had  been  remarkable  ;  no  inward  and 
still  disdain,  but  an  exaggerated  and  elo- 
quent  defiance.     Geraldi  had  most  admu-ed- 


RUMOR. 


n 


her  in  these  moods ;  they  had  brought  her 
the  nearest  to  himself.  No  sigh  troubled  the 
air,  no  breathing  quickened  into  passionate 
or  plaintive  whispers  ;  sighs  could  not  break, 
it  was  as  a  lake  frozen  over  to  the  brim,  and 
beneath  that  ice  the  breath  lapsed  faintingly, 
but  lapsed  into  an  internal  pulsation  too 
dangerously  quick,  a  pulsation  which  indeed 
pressed  the  spirit  to  the  edge  of  earth's  ex- 
istence ;  that  thin,  how  thin  a  line  of  dark- 
ness which  divides  from  light,  a  line  one 
cannot  pass  in  sleep,  or  swoon,  or  trance, 
nor  in  dreams,  but  in  death  alone.  Was  it 
death,  then,  Geraldi  saw,  and  deserved  to  see, 
when  he  turned  his  eyes  to  examine  coldly 
and  deliberately  the  effect  of  his  commimi- 
cation  ?  He  thought  so,  nay,  believed,  and 
for  the  time  as  bare  and  remorseful  an  agony 
seized  upon  him  as  though  he  had  murdered 
Geraldine,  not  her  happiness  only.  For 
white  lay  the  shadow  of  death  upon  her  face, 
ghostly  gray  upon  her  relaxed  and  stirless 
li'ps,  deep  violet  round  her  eyes,  those  eyes 
that  would  not  wholly  close,  but  showed  a 
gleam  of  filmy  pearl  and  azure  within  the 
golden  lashes,  a  dreary  sight.  And  when 
Geraldi  moved  his  arm,  which  had  encircled 
her,  scared  from  his  cruel  embrace  by  a  fear 
as  cruel,  her  head  fell,  not  softly,  as  when 
pressed  by  the  poppy-wreath  of  slumber, 
but  heavily,  and  where  it  di-opped,  re- 
mained. 

Geraldi  could  bear  no  more ;  he  had  nev- 
er really  had  any  thing  to  bear  except  Avhat 
even  in  its  suffering  is  passio-.  through 
ecstasy,  and  rapture  in  its  mo^t  restless 
moods.  Now  flung  from  his  hope  of  love, 
vitalizing  life  with  treble  energy  against  the 
conviction  of  death,  if  not  true,  a  reality  to 
him ;  he  had  no  piace  to  flee  unto ;  a  wan- 
dering star  is  net  more  lonely  in  the  deserts 
and  the  depths  of  space.  Self-reliance  spent 
in  an  instant  at  that  surpassing  shock,  no 
help  near,  none  in  himself,  and  no  hope  from 
her,  he  fled  from  her,  not  knowing  whither 
he  meant  to  go,  but  by  instinct  going  to  the 
right  place  and  person.  As  in  uneasy  dreams 
the  night-walker  arises  and  wanders  safely 
through  unknown  places,  so  he  who  had 
never  been  in  a  room  of  Hope  Park  before, 
went  straight  to  the  dining  chamber,  and  di- 
rect, opening  the  door  mechanically,  yet  ad- 
vancing with  steps  that  staggered  not.  The 
whole  distinguished  company  were  met,  all 
nad  eaten  enough  to  be  able  to  talk,  and 
drunk  enough  wine  to  make  conversation 
agreeable.  All,  except  Diamid  Albany, 
w  hose  mind  was  so  perfectly  in  training,  that 
he  could  bring  it  to  bear  at  any  moment  on 
the  most  difficult  question  or  interminable 
argument,  yet  who  preserved  so  strict  a  du- 
ality of  being,  that  his  heart  was  free  and 
revelling  with  his  precious  charge  up  stairs. 
As  the  door  opened,  the  decorous  retainer 
put  to  guard  it  might  as  well  have  tried  to 
prevent  a  lightning  from  shining  in  at  an 
open  window,  as  Geraldi  from  going  whither 


he  would;  the  rest  of  the  servants  lemained 
immutable  as  statues  each  behind  his  chair, 
exact  patterns  of  what  their  models  should 
have  been,  for  their  masters  and  mistresses 
were  all  disturbed,  and  exclaimed  in  toups 
as  affrighted  and  trembling  as  if  a  ghost  had 
entered.  Quietly  as  a  ghost  indeed,  Geraldi 
glided,  creeping  to  Albany's  chair,  and 
whispered,  for  he  meant  none  else  to  hear, 
though  all  heard  the  hoarse  and  ho].bw  utter- 
ance —  "  Geraldine  is  dead  !  " 

Never  had  a  person  who  deserved  so  little, 
endured  so  much  of  misery,  distress,  and 
that  indescribable  care  we  call  worry,  as 
Albany.  It  really  seemed  as  though  he,  to 
whom  it  mattered  most  whether  Geraldine 
were  dead  or  lived,  were  the  last  who  had  an 
interest  in  her,  and  hold  upon  her.  Every 
matron  in  the  company  rushed  after  her 
mother;  and  her  mother,  who  had  never 
tended  her  in  her  life,  made  as  though  she 
had  never  quitted  her  an  instant,  nor  weaned 
her  from  her  side.  She  stood  at  the  head  of 
the  sofa  on  which  Geraldine  had  evvooned, 
and  Geraldi  at  the  foot ;  on  each  side  pressed 
a  crowd  of  fair  and  curious  faceji;  for  her 
husband  there  was  no  room.  And  Albany, 
whose  deepest  passion,  whether  of  grief  or 
joy,  never  interfered  with  his  philosophy, 
saw  that  the  best  thing  he  could  do  was  to 
summon  medical  aid,  so  long  de.spised  by 
him,  but  now  desperately  desired.  But  while 
writing  a  message  in  the  library,  one  came 
for  him  from  Geraldine,  who  had  revived 
with  the  quick  response  of  youth  to  remedies 
untried  before ;  Geraldi  brought  the  message. 
As  it  is  said  that  great  sinners,  after  great 
judgments  passed  away,  become  more  reck- 
less, so  was  the  boy  more  sullen  and  more 
saucy,  for  on  delivering  the  message,  he  con- 
trived to  convey  the  sense  of  his  own  value 
in  Geraldine's  eyes,  and  reurned  before  Al- 
bany could  reach  the  bed-room,  to  the  side 
of  her  pillow.  But  whatever  were  Geral- 
dine's wishes,  her  Avill  was  against  his  that 
time ;  she  ordered  him  to  go,  as  she  had 
ordered  every  other  person  to  go  out  of  the 
room ;  and  this  time,  he  knew  not  why,  he 
dared  not  disobey,  nor  try  to  thwart  her. 

No  embrace,  however  weak,  no  words  of 
love,  however  low,  for  her  husband.  She 
only  said,  and  rather  more  imperiously  than 
she  had  addressed  Geraldi,  "  I  want'  Lady 
Delucy.  I  must  see  her  directly  —  send  for 
her.  I  cannot  sleep  nor  die,  which  ever  it 
is  to  be,  till  I  have  seen  her." 

"  I  will  send  for  her  instantly,"  answered 
Diamid  ;  "  she  shall  be  here  to-night"  —  for 
he  knew  she  was  only  in  the  next  county. 
He  rejoiced  too  much  that  Geraldine's  frewt 
set  towards  her,  to  wonder  at  it  for  an  in- 
stant—  we  seldom  wonder  when  ^\hat  we 
wish  for  happens.  For  he  kncHv  by  experi- 
ence the  invaluable  influence  of  Lady  Delucy 
in  illness  or  sudden  woe,  her  soothing  sweet- 
ness and  secret  strength,  her  character  per- 
fect in  its  maternity.     Such  a  nurse  for  mind 


72 


RUMOR. 


and  body  could  not  be  bought  or  hired  — long 
had  he  coveted  for  Geraldme  a  frendship  for 
which  she  did  not  care,  and  which  the  elder 
lady  was  too  delicate  to  press  upon  the  way- 
ward girl.  Now  he  only  thought,  "  she  finds 
at  last,  that  she  wants  indeed  a  friend  —  as  I 
find  that  at  last  a  husband  is  neither  friend, 
ni)r  mother,  nor  nurse  —  alas!"  So  a  third 
time  that  day  was  the  electric  telegraph  put 
to  Geraldine's  use,  and  Lady  Delucy  arrived 
almost  simultaneously  with  physicians  sent 
for  from  London. 

Now,  though  Lady  Delucy  had  prophetic- 
ally feared  lest  the  united  happiness  of  U  la- 
mid  and  Geraldine  might  be  a  destiny  too 
brilliant  for  endui-ance,  she  had  also  fervent- 
ly longed  for  the  dispersion  of  the  dread 
possessing  her,  had  prayed  ardently  for  their 
steadfast  peace.  Few  women,  none  save  the 
bestand  the  noblest,  regretdisappointment  be- 
falling others  who  have  acted  towards  them 
with  injustice,  even  if  the  only  seeming  in- 
justice has  been  the  difference  between  the 
balance  of  happiness  in  the  different  desti- 
nies, or  what,  for  want  of  a  better  name,  we 
call  good  fortune.  This,  Albany's  first  friend, 
M'ould  have  gladly  given — not  only  her  life 
for  his,  that  were  too  easy  a  gratification  — 
but,  her  life  for  Geraldine's,  her  health  for 
hers,  her  peace,  if  not  of  heart,  of  conscience 
—  that  possession  most  precious  which  the 
pure  who  sufi'er  alone  know  how  to  prize, 
pjager  and  earnest  were  her  questions  asked 
of  Diamid,  the  first  person  she  saw  on  her 
arrival;  slow  and  despondent  his  replies,  for 
what  could  he  say?  Even  she  saw  as  well 
as  felt,  that  he  had  deeper  cause  for  care 
tiian  Geraldine's  bodily  indisposition — a  cause 
she  could  not  divine,  and  dared  not  inquire 
of  him.  She  could  not  divine,  for  a  woman 
whose  devotion  to  a  man  is  disinterested, 
never  suspects  that  another  woman  could 
fail  in  her  allegiance  to  the  same.  And 
directly  she  found  that  she  could  confer  no 
consolation  on  him,  she  hastened  to  succor 
where  she  might  be  most  needed  after  all. 

Physicians  had  examined  Geraldine  by 
that  time,  and  had  taken  care  not  to  betray 
to  their  patient  their  suspicion  of  her  immi- 
nent danger  ;  nor  could  they  succeed  in  con- 
vincing her  parents  of  it ;  they  could  not,  or 
would  not,  believe  such  a  possibility.  Her 
mother  had  often  fainted  in  her  girlhood,  and 
her  father,  from  whom  she  inherited  the  con- 
sumptive temperament,  had  outlived  the  sus- 
picious weakness  of  his  youth. 

On  entering  Geraldine's  room.  Lady  De- 
lucy started,  as  well  she  might,  to  see  Geral- 
di  there  ;  she  had  never  given  him  credit 
for  being  really  of  so  much  consequence  to 
his  cousiu  as  Geraldine  had  chosen  to  make 
out  in  Ikt  childhood's  history.  And,  had 
Geraldine  not  happened  to  have  seen  Lady 
Delucy,  he  would  probably  have  taken  her 
for  a  nurse ;  but  he  had  seen  her  —  he 
knew  her,  and  also  instantly  knew  why  she 
had  been  sent  for.     He  had  never  di-eamed  of 


Geraldine  so  acting,  for  the  jealousy  of  a 
man  diff"ers  essentially  in  its  monitions  from 
that  of  a  woman,  save  in  those  cases  where 
morally  the  sexes  seem  in  unnatural  encroach- 
ment upon  each  other.  A  man's  jealousy  is 
resolute  and  rash;  a  woman's,  spiritual,  but 
oh  !  how  subtle  ;  his  would  visit  the  victim 
with  sudden  and  murderous  revenge,  hers 
would  drain  from  existence  its  green  and 
healthful  joy,  and  blight  the  blossom  at  its 
heart  of  the  sweet  flower  called  hope,  leav- 
ing the  sapless  stem,  the  withered  petals,  '.o 
their  death  in  life. 

And  so  now  Geraldi  trembled  :  an  earth- 
quake's throes  rend  not  more  suddenly  the 
earth's  material  calm,  than  the  shock  of  his 
suspense  heaved  his  spirit  ;  for  now  he  re- 
called the  false,  in  what  he  had  stated, 
rather  than  the  true,  and  the  probability  of 
his  real  surmise  vanished  ;  for  himself  he 
foresaw  disgrace,  and,  worse  than  disgrace, 
the  death  of  Geraldine's  love.  No  need  now 
to  send  him  from  her  side,  he  was  only  too 
thankful  to  go  ;  and  she,  whose  suspense  was 
at  least  as  terrible  as  his,  cared  not  to  detain 
him  near  her  ;  if  she  should  after  all  need  a 
witness,  he  was  not  the  one,  nor  should  he 
be  compromised ;  there  was  another,  the 
person  who  had  told  him. 

Lady  Delucy  sat  down  by  Geraldine,  w'hom 
they  had  not  dared  to  move  from  the  sofa  on 
which  she  lay.  Nothing  but  illness  at  a 
crisis  could  have  made  a  girl  naturally  gen- 
erous and  amiable,  so  morbidly  inconsiderate 
and  unjust.  Every  one  knows  that  there  are 
many  ways  of  saying  the  same  thing ;  a  ret- 
icent and  delicate  hint,  a  question  implied 
rather  than  expressed,  when  that  which  has 
to  be  mentioned  must  hurt  the  person  ad- 
dressed, at  all  events,  and  may  wound  the 
heart  incurably.  But  Geraldine  would  not 
greet  Lady  Delucy,  and  thrust  back  her  soft 
hand ;  weak  as  she  was,  she  reared  her  head 
from  the  pillow,  and  surveyed  her  companion 
with  haughty  and  irreverent  gaze ;  the  volition 
of  jealousy  more  violent  than  that  of  love, 
galvanized  her  into  momentary  strength, 
and  she  exclaimed  in  a  voice  authoritative  as 
that  of  an  elder  catechizing  a  rebellious 
child,  — 

"  Did  Mr.  Albany  ever  ask  you  to  marry 
him  ?  I  will  know  from  your  own  hps  ;  and 
if  so,  why  did  you  refuse  him  ?  " 

There  "never  was  a  softer  heart  than  the 
lady's  ;  had  there  been  the  least  admixture 
of  love's  humility  in  the  manner  of  the 
question,  or  even  the  bewildered  incoherence 
of  passion  overwrought,  she  could  have  ])ar- 
doned  it  more  readily,  and  replied  more 
easilv  ;  but  she,  too,  "had  pride,  and  pride 
that  had  been  half-starved,  not  pampered, 
like  Geraldine's,  with  every  luxury  of  lovp's 
indulgence.  By  great  calmness  and  dignity 
unruffled,  she  hoped  to  arrest  what  she  could 
not  believe  was  more  than  suspicion  —  how 
roused,  she  knew  not. 

"  Your  illness  only,  my  dear  child,"  nhe 


RUMOR. 


73 


answered,  "  could  have  put  such  a  fancy  into 
your  head,  you  have  been  dreaming  awake, 
as  we  do  at  times  in  iUness ;  try  to  rest,  and 
above  all  do  not  think,  we  will  think  for  you 
in!<t>ead  ;  and  be  assured  that  nothing  has 
ever  happened  to  me  which  can  signify  the 
least  to  you." 

With  a  dread,  quivering  clutch,  Geraldine 
seized  Lady  Delucy's  hand  —  a  clutch  of  the 
weak  and  wasted  fingers  only,  for  the  hand 
had  no  power  to  hold  —  a  mere  momentary 
grasp,  as  it  were  a  spasm  of  touch,  wild  as 
the  spasm  of  suspense,  that  gave  her  spirit 
an  instant  strength  —  short-during  as  a 
babe's  convulsion,  powerful  as  a  grown  man's 
madness.  No  condition  of  bodily  sanity 
could  be  a  match  for  this  —  the  insanity  of 
sickness. 

"  Yes  or  no,"  screamed  Geraldine,  M'ith  a 
cry  like  the  cry  of  a  child  convulsed,  a  short, 
sharp  shriek,  intermingling  v/ith  the  gasps 
of  vague  distress.  "  Yes  or  no,  or  I  shall 
die  —  I  will  die  —  I  can  die  if  I  choose,  this 
moment." 

And  what  was  strange,  or  perhaps  natural. 
Lady  Delucy  was  appalled  into  belief  that 
the  actual  danger  which  she  contemplated 
would  indeed  be  the  death  she  feared.  Now 
she  had  a  theory  (which  she  had  never  had 
the'  opportunity  of  testing)  that  common 
sense  is  the  best  antidote  to  excessive  exal- 
tation of  the  faculties.  \\\  an  instant  she 
made  up  her  mind  to  tell  no  lie,  nor  confess 
the  genuine  truth,  but  to  generalize.  She 
therefore  answered  lightly  with  —  oh  !  how 
heavy  a  heart  and  depressed  a  feeling,  re- 
specting her  own  worth  or  mission  in  the 
world,  we  cannot  write, —  "You  are  very 
much  younger  than  Diamid,  my  dearest 
Geraldine.  All  men  who  marry  late  have 
had  ideas,  if  not  intentions,  of  marrying 
early  ;  it  may  not  have  been  for  love,  very 
often  for  gain,  sometimes " 

Here  Geraldine  broke  in  with  weakened 
tones,  that  wailed  into  a  sob  almost  before 
they  spent  themselves.  "It  is  true  then, 
true,  and  he  is  true,  not  Diamid,  not  Diamid, 
but  he."  Then  Geraldine's  eyes  closed,  and 
she  lay  still  again,  still  as  in  the  swoon 
which  had  whelmed  her  fiiculties  after  Ge- 
raldi  spoke  the  truth  he  cruelly  perverted. 
But  Geraldine  this  ^  time  Avas  in  no  swoon 
actual;  she  suffered  too  strongly;  it  was  but 
the  swoon  mimetic  of  hysteria,  that  last 
mystery  left  for  modern  medicine,  and 
modern  courage  to  explain.  The  lady  un- 
derstood, though  she  could  not  have  explained 
it ;  she  was  in  misery  for  the  misery  she  had 
caused,  and  for  which  she  directly  blamed 
iicrself,  as  persons  of  uncharged  conscience 
are  ready  to  do.  Oh,  that  she  could  give 
consolation  !  let  those  who  wish  the  same 
never  try  to  offer  it  through  tvords ;  the 
very  fragrance  of  a  flower  sickens  the  sick 
at  heart,  and  words,  however  tender,  rasp 
the  sensitive  ear  of  the  tortured  brain.  In 
feet,  consolation  is  as  awkward  an  intruder 
10 


upon  sorrow,  as  any  companion  save  the 
lover,  upon  love  ;  so  much  of  love  is  sor- 
row, and  so  precious  is  sorrow,  in  the  place 
of  love,  clothed  in  the  raiment  of  that 
familiar  dead  delight. 

"  It  is  not  true,"  said  the  lady,  who  had 
never  embraced  sorrow  in  the  ])lace  of  love, 
for  love  had  never  nestled  near  her.  "  It  is  not 
true  that  he  loved  me  as  he  loves  you  —  per- 
haps not  true  that  he  loved  me  at  all." 
Now,  as  the  lady  herself  had  believed  her- 
self beloved,  she  felt  as  though  she  made  in 
this  remark  the  last  concession  of  charity  ; 
she  thought  she  had  done  the  utmost  to  veil 
the  truth  without  actual  falsehood.  But  she 
implied  the  fact  which  Geraldine  had  dreaded 
to  have  confu-med  ;  —  that  was  enough  to 
seal  for  that  young  heart  the  doom  of  its 
despair. 

Truly,  we  should  never  seek  to  know  what 
we  fear.  The  mystery  of  Hope  is  a  celestial 
phantom  placed  between  the  heart  in  its 
frail  humanity,  and  the  reality  of  Awe  ;  nor 
should  its  veiling  brightness  be  rent  with  our 
own  sacrilegious  hand ;  if  we  are  to  prove 
the  worst,  if  for  us  the  mystery  of  Terror  is 
to  be  fulfilled,  let  Heaven's  own  hghtnings 
rend  the  radiant  mist,  and  Heaven's  own 
mercy  temper  the  justice  of  the  revela- 
tion. 

With  all  her  self-created  assurance,  Ger- 
aldine had  not  really  believed  Geraldi  —  she 
now  knew  by  the  torturing  extremity  of  her 
conviction  that  she  had  not ;  but  she  believed 
now,  and  remorselessly  the  truth  entered 
as  iron  into  her  soul.  Almost  as  calm  as 
death  is  enforced  resignation,  hard  as  the 
nether  millstone  is  the  pride  of  patience.  So 
calm  and  rigid  Geraldine  remained  some 
time,  that  the  lady  hoped  she  was  asleep,  and 
even  thought  so  ;  —  for  the  flutter  of  a  few 
strayed  golden  hairs  on  the  gii-l's  cheek 
showed  that  still  she  breathed  and  lived ; 
and  her  companion  trusted  —  she  dared  not 
but  trust  —  that  in  sleep  the  distressful  hal- 
lucination would  spend  itself,  into  it  passing 
as  one  of  its  own  dreams,  and  so  remain  at 
the  awaking,  or  perhaps  be  as  a  cU'eam  for- 
gotten. For  the  lady  never  imagined  Geral- 
dine had  been  told  ;  she  for  a  moment  forgot 
she  had  told  any  one  herself,  and  she  could 
understand  and  pardon  that  with  which  she 
could  not  sympathize  —  a  suspicious  imagi- 
nation informing  a  passionate  nature.  She 
also  pitied  the  young  wife ;  for,  knowing 
that  Albany  was  of  necessity,  much  occupied 
with  what  could  not  interest  Geraldine,  she 
thought  it  possible  her  heart  had  during 
those  pauses  of  conjugal  intercommunion 
lapsed  into  loneliness  severely  felt,  because 
so  strongly  contrasting  with  the  sympathy  at 
all  other  hours  her  own.  Little  knew  the 
lady  of  the  preparations  intellectual  pride 
had  been  making  in  Geraldine's  mind  so 
long,  for  the  final  ruin  of  its  peace  —  or  how 
easily  the  heai't's  happiness  succumbs  when 
mental  peace  is  destroyed.     Less  knew  she 


74 


RUMOR. 


of  the  force,  and  depth,  and  fierceness  of 
Geraldine's  spiritual  pride,  surpassing  in  its 
suddenly-aroused  activitj-,  the  strength  of 
her  love,  as  the  heart's  master-pulse,  the 
wrist's  small  throbbing  thread.  Much  has 
been  said,  preached,  and  written,  about  the 
evil  of  pride  ;  but  in  good  truth  such  words 
fall  to  the  ground,  where  they  deserve  to  lie  ; 
no  one  declares  the  real  reason  why  pride  is 
wrong,  and  an  insult  to  the  Majesty  of 
Heaven;  for  few  indeed  know,  and  those 
few  are  too  proud  to  confess.  There  is  an 
absurd  idea  -which,  by  the  way,  no  ])roud 
person  ever  entertains,  that  pride  in  all  its 
kinds  and  every  degree  is  wrong;  and  it 
therefore  may  sound  paradoxical  to  assert, 
what  all  proud  persons  know  nevertheless  to 
be  true,  that  pride  is  as  necessary  for  the 
maintenance  of  the  human  condition  in  its 
human  perfection,  as  charity  is  necessary  for 
the  maintenance  of  the  spiritual  condition, 
whose  perfection  is  universal  love.  Is  there 
a  virtue  which,  by  abuse,  that  is,  through 
excess,  may  not  sink  to  weakness,  the  atmos- 
phere surrounding  vice  ?  what  virtue  has 
rot,  at  times,  by  individuals  or  parties,  been 
abused,  degraded  through  excess  ?  Yet, 
what  without  pride  is  amlntion  —  not  emula- 
tion, the  desire  to  excel  others,  but  the  desire 
to  excel?  What  without  it  is  honor,  —  not 
the  principle  of  duelling,  but  the  principle 
which  bids  a  man  make  his  Mill,  and  never 
contract  a  debt  ?  What  is  chivalry  Avithout 
it,  —  not  particular  devotion  to  every  wo- 
man, but  general  reverence  for  all  ?  AVhat 
without  pride  is  poverty  ?  —  not  the  pov- 
erty which  begs  and  crawls  by  day,  and  wan- 
tons and  feasts  at  night ;  but  the  poverty 
which  the  rich  dare  not  to  insult  by  helping, 
and  which  tliose  neither  rich  nor  poor  sus- 
pect not.  Above  all,  what  without  pride  is 
passion  —  the  anguish  of  disappointed  love  ? 
wreathing  with  its  purple  blossoms  the  grave 
of  hope  till  men  tread  on  it  as  on  a  bloom- 
ing garden  —  stifling  the  sigh  that  might 
reveal  —  drying  the  tear  that  would  betray 
the  tenderness  of  the  wounded  heart ;  keep- 
ing secrets  for  a  thousand,  nay  a  thousand 
thousand,  from  all  but  God.  Certainly,  for 
this  life,  pride  is  at  least  as  precious  a  pos- 
session as  great  beauty,  high  race,  or  suffi- 
cient wealth  ;  all  blessings,  liable  enough  to 
be  abused,  still  blessings  as  much  as  the 
wine  whicl  can  intoxicate,  the  food  which 
may  surfeit,*  the  pain-chai-ming  opiate  which 
is  also  poison. 

But  pride,  in  its  excess,  is  more  dangerous 
than  all  other  passions,  in  proportion  to  its 
strength,  which  surpasses  theirs.  So  is  it 
alone,  and  for  that  reason  alone  to  be  con- 
trolled by  love  —  the  true  spmt  of  self-sac- 
rilice,  even  as  pride  is  the  true  spirit  of  self- 
respect.  And  pride  is  fatal  when  it  will  not 
be  controlled  by  love,  but  rises  insurgent 
over  it.  Celestial  hosts,  swerving  from  their 
homage  to  the  heavenly  principle,  were  lost 
—  they  are  said  to  have  fallen,  a  word  how 


eloquent  to  express  the  degradation  of  the 
proud,  none  but  the  proud  can  tell. 

So  in  this  hour  of  trial,  when  pure,  anself 
ish,  unmixed  love  alone,  could  ha.e  tri- 
umphed over  evil,  a  Moman  who  was  no  angel 
—  fell.  Just  as  Satan  can  bestow  the  king- 
doms of  this  world  and  their  glory,  so  can 
pride  give  strength  to  its  own,  for  any,  the 
last  emergency.  Geraldine  stirred,  and 
opened  her  eyes ;  as  Lady  Delucy  the  iglit, 
looked  innocently  and  sweetly  around.  Soft 
and  quiet  were  her  tones,  too  ;  pride  gave 
her  power  to  modulate  them. 

"  I  want  to  see  Diamid,"  she  murmured  ; 
"  Avill  you  call  him  ?  " 

Lady  Delucy  thought,  "  Why  should  she 
not  see  him  ?  was  he  not  the  proper  com- 
panion for  her  ?  " 

And  she  inwardly  rejoiced,  going  instantly 
to  call  him.  Close  enough  he  was  at  hand, 
only  outside  the  door,  and  listening  to  the 
silence  as  only  the  loving  can  listen,  for  a 
breath  or  a  voice  of  Geraldine's.  He  crept 
to  her  side  —  he  saw,  too,  the  softer  expres- 
sion which  masked  her  countenance  at  her 
own  will,  and  his  instant  emotion  rendered 
him  unguarded  —  suspicious  he  never  had 
been.  He  scarcely  felt  it  strange  -when 
Geraldine  said  to  him,  though  without  hold- 
ing out  her  hand  —  still  she  smiled  the 
shadow-smile  of  illness,  — 

"  My  dearest  Diamid,  I  want  to  ask  you  a 
question,  —  I  am  sure  you  will  answer  it  — 
indeed,  I  guess  the  answer.  Did  not  you 
once  ask  Lady  Delucy  to  marry  you  ?  " 

Diamid  was  quite  deceived  ;  had  he  loved 
Lady  Delucy  passionately  he  would  have 
been  thunderstricken ;  he  might  have  equiv- 
ocated in  reply  ;  but  he  had  felt  it  so  little, 
that  he  was  not  afraid  to  confess,  nor  ashamed 
how  little  he  had  felt. 

"  Long  and  long,  and  very  long  ago,  before 
Geraldine  was  born  —  before  she  came  to 
make  all  the  world  a  paradise.  That  is 
what  happens  when  tender  creepers  fondle 
round  old  stones,"  —  and  he  bent  to  kiss 
her,  so  innocent  of  the  root  of  that  delicate 
and  clinging  parasite,  for  he  himself  was 
born  without  suspicion,  or  the  power  to  envy 
or  bear  maUce.  But  Geraldine  with  one 
hand  covered  her  lips,  with  the  other  pressed 
him  from  her. 

"  Did  you  hate  her  ?  "  she  inquired  vehe- 
mently.    "  I  must  know  that ;  I " 

Now  Albany  was  as  just  as  generous  ;  he 
knew  he  had  never  hated  the  woman  whom 
he  had  never  passionately  loved  —  her  good- 
ness faced  him  suddenly  —  and,  to  excuse 
his  abrupt  reply,  it  must  be  said  that  Geral- 
dine's sudden  question,  its  sudden  vehe- 
mence for  an  instant  displaced  the  idea  of 
her  danger ;  he  could  not  believe  that  one 
near  death  would  exhibit  a  mood  so  earthly. 

"  Xo,"  said  he,  in  solemn  tones,  "  I  did 
not  hate  her,  —  and  no  one  could." 

Albany  had  better  not  have  uttered  the 
ti"uth  this  time,  and  soon  he  knew  it ;  but  he 


■RUMOR. 


75 


was  irritated  —  he  had  married  a  child  of 
genius,  and  one  in  all  but  genius  still  a  child. 
When  she  acted  childishly,  she  annihilated 
the  ideal  of  the  wife,  which  his  imagination, 
mature  as  his  manhood,  cherished. 

Soon,  indeed,  was  he  punished  for  his  sin- 
cerity. For  Geraldine  called  loud  upon 
Geraldi,  and  though  he  was  not  near  this 
time,  her  cries  for  him  redoubled,  until  Al- 
bany, terrified  at  the  excitement  possessing 
her,"  called  the  boy  himself.  Geraldi  slowly 
and  reluctantly  returned,  expectant  of  im- 
mediate disgrace,  and  was  crowned  with  im- 
mediate triumph. 

''  You  loved  me  always,  Geraldi,  and  were 
always  true  ;  Geraldi,  you  spoke  the  truth  !  " 
And  she  drew  him  to  her  arms  ;  he,  stunned 
with  the  sudden  conquest,  was  almost  shamed 
into  gentleness  unlike  himself,  thus  doubly 
decen-ing  Albany,  who  amidst  his  deep  dis- 
tress, was  even  consoled  by  the  reflection 
that  she  had  any  one  near  her  whom  she 
would  allow  to  minister  to  her  comfort. 

If  comfort,  it  was  not  calm  for  long. 
With  the  night  a  low  delirium  seized  Geral- 
dine ;  she  knew  nothing,  seemed  to  see  no 
one,  raved  in  murmurs,  wailed  in  whispers, 
the  most  fearsome  freak  of  malady  to  be- 
hold, if  not  to  bear.  Still,  perhaps,  the  re- 
action of  fever  upon  the  brain,  for  the  hour 
making  there  its  stronghold,  saved  her  lungs, 
at  least  it  saved  her  life.  But  the  moral 
mania  left  her  not ;  all  night  she  shrank 
away  when  Albany  approached  her,  shrank 
-oser  to  G6raldi,  who  never  left  his  position, 
nor  unclasped  her  arras  from  his  embrace. 


CHAPTER    XVII. 

The  time  when  Albany  had  asked  Lady 
Delucy  for  her  hand,  had  been  the  passion- 
spring  of  existence,  which  steeps  all  moods 
in  an  empurpling  light.  None  but  sweet 
words  had  dropped  from  his  lips,  for  only 
sweet  thoughts  nestled  in  his  brain,  and  his 
poet's  imagination  teemed  with  tender  fancies. 
Tlien  he  felt  just  enough,  not  too  much,  to 
be  able  to  make  love  eloquently.  It  is  not 
the  most  deep.y-loving  who  can  plead  most 
fluently,  nor  does  he,  inwrapt  in  another's 
being,  seek  for  conceits  or  compliments  to 
adorn  his  petition.  Then  it  is  true  that  Di- 
amid  had  admired  Lady  Delucy  —  any  man 
of  fastidious  taste  must  have  done  so.  She 
was  also  agreeable  to  him,  her  soft  heart  and 
deliciois  temper  eased  his  irritable  genius 
and  so  )thed  his  nerves.  But  she  was,  as  an 
object,  sujn-emely  desirable,  for  she  had  high 
position,  large  fortune,  and  boundless  gen- 
erosity wherever  she  loved  or  approved. 
Born  and  self-trained  a  physiologist,  he  knew 
perfectly  well  that  he  w'as  dear  to  her,  and 
he  concluded  that  his  protection  of  her  and 


the  devotion  from  which  he  could  trust  him- 
self never  outwardly  to  swerve,  would  be 
equivalents  for  what  he  wished  her  to  be 
stow.  He  knew  that  she  alone  could  ad- 
vance him  immediately  to  the  high  ground 
he  wished  to  take  ;  years  of  solitary  aspu-a- 
tion  and  industry  must  bring  him  to  that 
same  point,  self-elevated  step  by  step,  but 
that  he  would  not  bear ;  he  had  a  singular 
theory,  certainly  having  ambition  for  its 
germ,  that  genius,  unless  developed  sud- 
denly, and  very  early,  was  worthless.  In 
fact,  as  far  as  intellect  was  concerned,  he  did 
not  believe  in  late  development  at  all. 

Now  when  his  father,  and  bibliopole,  but 
no  genius,  had  discovered  his  son's  literary 
fancy,  as  he  called  it,  and  discovered  it 
through  Diamid's  throwing  up  the  employ- 
ment and  profession  selected  for  him,  and 
for  which,  unlike  most  who  throw  up  prac- 
tical commonplace,  he  was  totally  unfit,  that 
parent  threw  him  up  also  to  all  intents  and 
purposes,  left  him  to  himself;  and  it  was 
the  daughter  of  his  former  employer,  who 
alone  understanding  him,  had  given  him 
frankly  the  assistance  he  then  most  needed 
—  means  of  literary  publicity.  He  knew 
w-ell  that  all  belonging  to  her  would  become 
entirely  at  his  disposal,  did  he  marry  her, 
not  for  what  he  considered  selfish  ends,  they 
were  so  disguised  beneath  the  promises  of 
his  genius. 

Lady  Delucy,  having  given  him  up,  at 
first  had  expected  he  Avould  marry,  marry  as 
most  men  do,  some  from  one  motive,  some 
from  another,  few  for  love  alone.  When  he 
did  not  marry,  it  cannot  be  denied  that 
whatever  quality  took  the  ])lace  of  vanity  in 
her  was  flattered,  and  that  her  love  became 
more  than  ever  dear  to  her  —  it  seemed  a 
reality  like  the  child  unborn,  or  the  child 
dead,  in  either  case  more  ])recious  than  bar- 
ren single-hearted  love.  Abroad  he  did  not 
marry  either,  and  on  his  first  wandering  fif- 
teen years  were  spent;  all  that  time  she 
nursed  her  secret  treasure,  and  it  lived  for 
her.  Then  he  returned,  and  for  some  few 
years  threw  his  whole  genius  into  aflairs,  as 
he  bar"  his  first  years  thrown  it  into  litera- 
ture, and  with  as  startling  and  ])ositive  a 
success.  When  Elizabeth  had  remarked  to 
her  mother,  the  night  after  they  met  him 
newly  married,  that  she  had  fancied  sonU' 
thing  six  months  before,  she  was  not  wide  of 
the  mark,  for  Diamid  had  done  a  thing  as 
foolish  as  he  could  do,  rendering  himself 
ridiculous,  and  the  la4y  who  loved  him  more 
unhappy  than  was  necessary.  It  was  then  he 
constructed  the  door  in  the  wall  between  his 
garden  and  hers  ;  for  she  had  the  tantalizing 
felicity  of  knowing  he  lived  close  to  her  dur- 
ing his  retreats  into  the  country,  as  she  had 
herself  persuaded  her  husband  to  leave  the 
pretty  tenement  in  its  grounds,  which  was 
attached  to  the  castle  —  not  to  Diamid,  but 
to  Diamid's  father,  who  had  naturally  left  it 
to  l)iamid,  on  discovery  that,  after  all,  his 


76 


RUMOR. 


eon  had  distinguished  himself  a^ove  all  other 
men  of  his  age  ;  nor  been  unfilial  either. 

So  Diamid  had  cohstructed  this  entrance, 
and  daily,  some  days  hourly,  the  lady  found 
him  in  her  room.  Servants  remarked  to 
each  other,  and  Elizabeth  also,  to  herself,  on 
this  arrangement ;  the  daughter,  who  inher- 
ited her  mother's  gentle  temperament,  was 
delighted  to  think  she  would  at  last  be 
happy  ;  for  even  in  her  childhood  Elizabeth 
had  suspected  the  truth,  as  she  once  said  to 
her  nurse,  that  Mr.  Albany  did  not  really 
care  for  her,  she  was  certain,  for  he  only 
kissed  her  and  nursed  her  before  her  mamma, 
never  deigning  to  notice  her  when  he  found 
her  alone  in  the  room. 

Now  Lady  Delucy,  who  of  course  ought 
to  have  been  stronger  of  will  than  when 
younger,  was  weaker  ;  she  could  not  trust 
herself  to  refuse  him  again,  if  again  he 
asked  her  hand,  which  he  was  on  the  edge 
of  doing,  for  still  his  comparative  poverty 
debarred  him  from  complete  popular  success, 
though  his  party-success  Avas  perfect.  So 
she  never  gave  him  the  opportunity,  for  she 
never  staid  with  him  alone,  and  Elizabeth 
marvelled  why  her  mother  pertinaciously 
called  her  to  her,  and  whispered  to  her  to 
remain,  whenever  Diamid  spent  the  morning 
there,  making  the  party  that  illustration  of 
duluess,  a  triad.  And  Elizabeth  was  very 
glad,  indeed,  that  Albany  at  last  went  away 
just  before  Charles  Lyonhart  returned  from 
India.  In  deep  self-disgust  at  his  incapacity 
to  outwit  a  woman,  and  sated  of  all  but  am- 
bition —  love  he  had  then  never  tasted,  Dia- 
mid left  Northeden  very  suddenly,  inflicting 
a  deeper  wound  than  he  conceived  he  had  it 
in  his  power  to  inflict,  for  now  it  mattered 
not  to  him  to  conceal  his  indifl'ereace,  and  it 
breathed  over  his  gentle  manner  like  frost,  on 
dew  ;  the  stidden  chill  of  the  first  winter- 
warning  strikes  not  death  to  the  flower  of 
the  field  as  that  light-dropping  coldness 
pierced  hope  to  its  heart  in  the  lady's  faith- 
ful breast.  Still,  she  was  not  prepared,  even 
by  his  indifference  to  her,  for  his  new  pref- 
erence, so  rapidly  conceived  and  consum- 
mated. 

Nor  was  Diamid  prepai-ed  for  this  either, 
any  more  than  she,  and  in  the  sudden  shock 
jf  passion,  the  seeds  of  retribution  for  him 
were  sown.  Lord  Chevening's  political  party 
required  a  head,  all  the  rest  of  the  members 
were  complete,  and  worked  without  it,  as  a 
steam-engine  without  a  driver,  perpetually 
crushing  down  their  own  designs,  nor  able 
to  avoid  what  was  actually  unnecessary  col- 
lision with  the  plans  of  others.  And  Lord 
Chevening  determined  to  win  Diamid  wholly, 
as  he  had  his  sympathy,  to  have  his  strength. 
This  nobleman  was  blood-descended  from 
'hat  first  William  Witt,  who  thrilled  the 
senate  with  eloquence  it  had  never  before 
echoed,  whose  last  words  of  harmonious  de- 
fiance, and  last  awful  apparition,  excel  in 
dramatic  sublimity  every  thing  except  Shake- 


speare ;  and  from  that  second  William  Witt, 
who,  born  of  such  a  father,  seemed  to 
have  been  purposely  endowed  with  every 
quality  the  parental  genius  had  lacked,  or 
disdained  to  use,  and  to  have  had  the  genius 
purposely  denied,  in  order  that  he  might  be- 
come a  martyr  through  the  weakness  which 
could  not  save  the  state  the  evils  he  could 
foresee  and  foretell.  But  as  to  Lord  Chev- 
ening, whatever  he  inherited  of  the  ambi- 
tion and  arrogance,  certainly  the  genius  and 
the  sagacity  remained  quiet  in  their  tombs  for 
him.  And  he  had  need  of  Diamid  Albany, 
knowing  no  better  nor  newer  means  to  re- 
sort to  to  purchase  him  over,  than  to  project 
and  complete  an  alliance  between  him  and 
his  only  child  —  he  had  no  son.  Now  Dia- 
mid, if  he  had  not  cared  to  marry  for  love 
in  his  youth,  cared  even  less  now,  —  indeed, 
never  thought  about  love  at  all,  —  though 
his  fine  taste  would  have  revolted  from  an 
ugly  or  an  unaccomplished  wife.  So  was  he 
punished  ;  for,  seeing  the  child  Geraldine, 
i  he  loved  her,  loved  her  as  only  sages  love 
little  children,  or  young  men  their  first  ideal ; 
loved  with  all  the  pain  of  passion,  yet  the 
adaj)tive  innocence  of  sympathy,  all  the  an- 
guish of  adoration,  and  all  the  tenderness 
of  protecting  strength.  And  if  he  ever  had 
a  fear  of  any  thing  after  their  union  was  ac- 
com])lished,  it  had  been  the  fear  of  losing 
her  love  —  not  his  own,  which  he  knew  and 
felt  to  be  eternal.  And  now  he  believes 
that  he  has  lost  it,  and  finds  for  the  first 
time,  that  without  love  life  is  -mere  exist- 
ence, and  wisdom  only  foolishness.    - 

Meantime,  as  quietly  as  she  could,  under 
the  circumstances,  I^ady  Delucy  mused  in 
solitude  on  the  singular  interview  she  had 
had  with  Geraldine,  and  there  gradually 
grew  u])on  her  —  slowly,  because  she  was  so 
unwilling  to  entertain  it  —  the  remembrance- 
that  she  had  certainly  confided  to  one  ear  her 
secret.  She  was  equally  certain  of  having 
told  no  one  except  the  wild  musician ;  but 
with  all  his  peculiarity  she  had  felt  sure  of 
his  honor  ;  how,  besides,  could  he  have  con- 
fided, who  had  made  or  accepted  no  friends  ? 
For  she  had  not  an  idea  or  dream  of  Geral- 
di's  being  mixed  up  in  the  matter  —  how 
should  she  have  had  ?  for  she  knew  nothing 
about  him,  except  that  he  was  Gerakline's 
cousin,  poor  and  proud.  She  had  never  been 
so  angry  with  any  one  as  she  now  felt  with 
herself;  her  secret  "a  caged  bird  flown," 
and  she  herself  had  opened  the  door.  She 
chafed  as  a  calm  lake  might  chafe,  whose 
shore  the  earthquake  shook.  Worst  of  all, 
though  she  instantly  resolved  to  question 
Rodomant,  she  did  not  know  where  to  find 
him,  for  all  communication  she  had  with  him 
was  such  as  she  might  have  maintained  with 
her  banker  ;  from  time  to  time  —  short  times 
too,  say  once  a  fortnight  or  in  three  weeks  — 
he  sent  her  small  sums  of  money,  or  single 
notes,  duly  registered.  Still,  these  were  al- 
ways acknowledged,  as  requested,  or  rathe* 


RUMOR. 


77 


demanded  by  him,  to  a  certain  place  —  a| 
music-warehouse  —  and  to  that  place  she  j 
wrote,  telling  him  that  she  must  see  him  in- 
stantly, at  her  house  in  town  where  he  had 
so  often  been  ;  that  he  must  meet  her  there, 
if  it  were  only  for  ten  minutes,  and  reply  to 
a  question  she  coukl  not  write,  and  he  alone 
could  answer.  And  she  followed  the  letter 
—  which  she  wrote  in  the  night  —  to  town 
the  next  day,  after  writing  to  her  daughter, 
to  say  she  should  be  at  home  the  next. 

But  her  torments  were  increased  before 
she  could  get  away.  She  had  to  see  Diamid, 
who,  when  he  heard  that  she  was  going, 
went  to  her  room  and  let  himself  in ;  Avho 
for  the  first  time  in  his  life  entirely  convinced 
of  her  worth,  overrated  it  in  his  imagination, 
rich  as  his  heart  was  generous,  and  appreci- 
ated her  for  the  first  time  in  exact  proportion 
as  he  misappreciated  his  dethroned  idol, 
whom  he  had  never  loved  so  sadly,  but  Avhom 
no  more  he  worshipped.  She  had  to  hear 
him  say  that  he  had  never  done  her  justice, 
never  so  vividly  perceived  her  secret  and 
spiritual  charms :  and  confess  that  he  had 
been  a  happier  and  a  wiser  man  if  she  had 
married  him.  This  was  the  central  sting  of 
her  sorrowful  irritation  ;  for  this  she  knew. 
She  knew  by  the  prematurity  of  her  first  ex- 
perience in  life,  by  the  perfect  flower  of  her  j 
youth's  amaranth  love,  that  though  not  so 
blissfully  intense,  so  ecstatically  exalted  as  ] 
his  joy  in  his  lot  with  Geraldine,  she  could 
and  would  have  bestowed  upon  him  a  safer, 
for  a  more  endurant  happiness,  a  more  avail- 
able wisdom  for  earthly  purposes,  than  that 
hild  of  brilliant  promise,  whose  fall  from  the 
pure  unselfishness  of  perfect  love,  had  made 
him  miserable  in  her  own  wayward  misery. 

He  left  Lady  Delucy  at  last,  after  a  long 
and  to  her  most  distressful  interview  —  left 
her  in  a  storm  of  inward  excitement,  which 
nothing  could  better  have  suited  than  the 
rushing  mighty  impulse  of  the  express  train. 
Scarcely  serener  when  she  reached  town,  her 
mood  was  much  that  of  the  weather  when  the 
storm  is  spent,  yet  still  electric  tints  suifuse 
the  clouds,  and  gild  their  edges,  and  the 
clouds  seem  angrier  and  more  gloomj'  be- 
cause of  the  deep  blue  gulfs  between  them. 
All  the  elements  of  her  character  were  in 
agitation,  and  her  natural  calm  of  tempera- 
ment, in  trying  to  restore  itself,  alternated 
with  her  indignation  in  a  struggle  new  to 
her  experience.  In  such  a  frame  she  awaited 
the  coming  of  the  offender. 

Now,  there  are  persons  who  never  ought 
to  be  found  foult  with,  rare  and  noble  natures, 
of  difficult  and  eccentric  temper.  They 
should  not  be  blamed,  simply  because  if  they 
are  blamed,  they  harden,  their  consciences  as 
it  were  become  negative  ;  they  will  neither 
allow  themselves  to  have  done  wrong,  nor 
<;xpress,  nor  feel  contrition.  But  such  na- 
tures, if  convicted  uncondemned,  will  always 
confess,  will  overrate  their  misdemeanor, 
exaggerate  it  in  their  own   esteem,  repent 


heartily,  and  never  offend  again.  Now  Rod 
omant  was  a  being  of  this  order,  and  fur 
ther,  he  was  just  now  ^ho  mind  or  mood  to 
be  found  fault  with ;  iMsjie  was,  to  tis^^ 
phrase,  only  as  much  to  thejJta^^oiidl^  i 
homely,  getting  on  in  the  world,  which  of 
course  in  England  means,  and  only  means, 
making  money.  And  though  he  sneered  in 
secret  at  those  Avho  helped  him  to  make  it,  it 
never  occurred  to  him  that  he  ought  rather 
to  have  sneered  at  himself,  for  producing 
what  the  many  could  appreciate,  rather  than 
what  the  few  would  have  delighted  in.  And 
it  really  seemed  as  though  his  destiny  were 
to  be  that  which,  while  most  dangerous,  is 
also  that  most  powerful  to  erect  Self  king  of 
mobs,  a  rich  man  —  positively,  not  relatively, 
rich,  one  of  those  men  to  whom  it  seems  only 
necessary  that  they  shall  extend  the  palm, 
that  fortune  may  rain  into  it  golden  drop- 
pings; the  one  talent  of  him  who  increased 
not,  given  to  him  that  had  made  ten,  not  even 
to  him  that  had  made  Jive.  For  Rodomant 
began  to  make  money  as  fast  as  he  pleased, 
and  to  be  known  not  only  in  the  uncciled 
chambers  of  the  organ  builders,  but  in  that 
very  fane  where  seldom  the  oi'gan  sounds, 
so  that  those  M'ho  hear  listen.  Not  only  at 
grand  morning  performances,  under  distin- 
guished patronage,  where  persons  paid  a 
guinea  each  to  the  art-trader,  who  just  then 
hired  Rodomant  and  paid  him.  but,  even  at 
the  Abbey-service,  this  being  of  strong  voli- 
tion continued  often  to  supplant  the  organist 
at  his  own  good  pleasure,  and  played  statelily 
or  eccentrically  ;  it  was  all  the  same,  he  filled 
the  space  with  music  any  how,  for  his  fingers 
could  not  touch  a  note  without  generating 
tone  —  it  was  as  the  perfume  of  the  blossom, 
the  light  spreading  from  the  sun.  And  the 
aisles  would  not  empty,  the  reader  would  not 
leave  the  lectern,  the  choir-singers  paused  in 
their  niches,  like  white  birds  wresting  on 
their  nests,  till  the  magician  who  had  chosen 
to  detain  them  there  scattered  his  spell  and 
let  them  go.  Still,  though  it  was  known  well 
enough,  by  that  time,  that  this  master  of 
what  cant  calls  the  ecclesiastical  school  of 
music,  was  also  a  composer  of  an  opera  on 
no  holy  subject ;  not  a  soul  guessed  that  he 
also  supplied  the  pianoforte  and  the  harp- 
market  with  the  ephemeral  trash,  whose  fash- 
ion,  like  other  fashions,  lasted  a  butterfly's 
life,  and  died.  For  though  yet  sound  at  his 
character's  core,  his  heart  yet  a  spring  shut 
up,  a  fountain  sealed,  Rodomant  despised  all 
men,  yet  was  all  things  to  all  men,  not  that 
he  might  win  some  to  the  most  refining  of 
all  faiths  but  love,  but  to  win  all  things  for 
himself.  So  his  mightiest  and  purest  gift, 
the  creative  genius,  did  not  languish  in  him, 
but  slumbered,  and  grew  in  sleep,  gained 
strength  in  its  unsullied  calm,  for  that  would 
not  prostitute  itself  to  the  end  of  gain,  ever, 
though  partially  a  just  ambition.  It  hap- 
pened, that  as  Rodomant  mixed  more  in  the 
world,  he  became  not  sensualized,  for  which 


78 


RUMOR. 


he  had  to  thank  a  spiritual  imagination,  and 
still  more  a  cool  cynical  judgment ;  but  de- 
graded in  his  aims,  heart-frozen,  if  not  hard- 
ened forever.  He  became  more  worldly 
than  M'ise,  for  now  he  longed  to  be  rich  after 
he  had  paid  his  debts,  forgetting  that  her  to 
whom  he  was  indebted,  he  never  could  ade- 
quately, however  literally  he  could,  repay. 
He  desired  to  be  considered  and  called  a 
rich  man,  while  he  yet  aspired  to  be  a  musi- 
cian, rich  in  hoards  of  genius ;  and  by  this 
frail  golden  thread  were  his  M-ings  bound 
a  while,  fast  as  by  his  lost  locks  was  chained 
the  antique  model  of  physical  power. 

He  therefore  was  in  a  mood  less  modest 
than  ever  in  his  life,  for  the  lust  of  wealth  is 
ever  ministrant  to  undue  personal  estimation. 
So  when  the  note  arrived  at  his  address,  and 
he  received  it  in  his  hand,  —  opened  it,  —  he 
hesitated  not  an  instant  about  obeying  it  to 
the  letter  ;  not  as  a  grateful  person  of  inferior 
sex  hastening  to  do  homage  to  the  lady  who 
had  most  befriended  and  honored  him,  but 
as  a  man  condescending  to  a  woman's  whim  ; 
the  weaker  she,  in  his  opinion,  for  besides 
not  knowing  her  own  mind.  For,  will  it  be 
believed,  this  M-ild  unchastened  heart  imag- 
ined that  the  heart  of  his  benefactress  relent- 
ed towards  him,  —  sure  proof  that  his  pas- 
sion had  declined  from  its  perfection,  and 
that  love  had  never  breathed  within  his 
breast. 

Sooner,  then,  than  she  had  expected  him, 
he  was  announced  to  Lady  Delucy.  He 
otime  in  with  defiant  tread,  and  a  sort  of 
smiling  disdain  in  his  countenance.  She 
was  surprised :  all  his  old  constraint  he  had 
also  banished,  yet  she  had  admired  him 
more  in  his  most  aAvkward  moments.  She 
did  not  sit  down,  she  felt  too  disturbed  even 
so  far  to  take  rest,  nor  did  she  offer  him  a 
chair,  something  in  his  manner  forbade  her  ; 
whereupon  he  took  one  in  her  very  face, 
though  the  action  was  so  evidently  one  of 
bravado,  that  it  was  rather  grotesque  than 
rude,  and  at  any  other  time  she  would  have 
laughed  ;  even  now  she  felt  inclined  to  lec- 
ture him  like  a  child.  "  I  am  amazed  at 
you  !  "  she  began,  in  the  dignified  tone  which 
Elizabeth,  when  a  child  herself,  had  been 
used  to  call  "  Mamma  playing  at  queen." 
"  But  really,  when  you  come  before  me  and 
behave  so  strangely,  I  cease  to  be  astonished 
at  what  you  hare  done  besides.  I  believe  I 
told  you  I  had  a  question  to  put  to  you, — 
let  it  be  answered  directly,  that  our  inter- 
view may  be  as  short  as  possible." 

This  treatment  did  not  tend  to  subdue 
him  ;  on  the  contrary,  his  glance  gathered 
satire,  his  eyebrows  lifted  up,  his  lip  drawn 
down,  subdued  her  in  part ;  she  remembered 
how  she  had  always  humored,  perhaps 
spoiled  him.  So  she'  thought  to  treat  him 
kindly;  and  sat  down  too.  Upon  which 
motion  of  hers,  he  whimsically  rose  to  his 
feet,  folded  his  arms,  bowed  his  head,  and 
waited. 


"  What  on  earth  makes  you  behave  so  P  " 
she  exclaimed,  in  a  tone  of  obvious  annovance. 

Said  he,  with  mock  respect,  that  imparted 
irreverence  to  his  manner,  "  We  are  no 
longer  equals  in  art,  we  must  not  do  the 
same  thing.  When  my  lady  stood,  it  would 
have  been  unpolite  for  me  to  stand  ;  when 
she  sits,  for  me  to  sit  would  be  a  scandal." 

Fortunately  he  touched  her  comic  vein  ; 
she  was  provoked  to  smile,  and  he  even 
quickened  her  curiosity. 

"  Why,  then,  are  we  no  longer  equals  in 
art  ?  though  that  has  nothing  to  do  with  my 
question." 

"  Because  we  never  were  equals  in  any 
thing  else.  You  treated  me  as  an  equal  then, 
and  I  bore  it,  because  we  were  equals  in  art. 
Now  you  treat  me  like  a  servant ;  formerly 
you  would  have  said,  '  take  a  seat,  I  am  sure 
you  must  be  tired  ! '  in  such  a  soft  voice,  as 
if  it  breathed  through  silk.  Noio  we  are 
therefore  no  longer  equals  in  your  esteem. 
Besides,  I  owe  to  you  still  —  but  not  for 
long  —  and  then  —  then  I  am  free  of  you 
and  all  your  sex." 

"  I  fear,  if  I  free  you,"  said  the  lady  an- 
grily, "  that  it  will  be  but  for  you  to  be 
bound  again ;  for  you  are,  alas  !  not  to  be 
trusted." 

He  stamped  and  frowned.  "  I  do  not  un 
derstand ;  is  your  gold  sent  from  my  hand, 
changed  to  brass  by  your  touch?  Are  such 
charges  to  be  addressed  to  me  ?  " 

"  You  best  know  what  you  deserve  ;  if 
you  can  deceive,  you  can  of  course  also 
deny."' 

"  What !  from  your  lips,  which  should  be 
the  last " 

"  Why  the  last  ?  if  you  deserve  —  and 
you  must  —  you  do." 

"  Because,"  he  said  between  his  sharp- 
shut  teeth,  "  a  man  *cannot  give  a  woman 
the  lie,  any  more  than  a  man  can  fight  a  wo- 
man, if  she  injures  or  insults  him." 

"  Oh,  I  wonder,"  said  she  more  severely 
than  ever,  "  I  wonder  you  pretend  to  respect 
any  one  of  the  laws  of  chivalry,  you  who  have 
broken  the  chief  and  crowning  one." 

"  What  nonsense  !  "  exclaimed  Rodoniant, 
recovering  himself,  for  he  actually  could  not 
comprehend  her  meaning.  "  And  how  much 
more  of  the  woman's  idle  nonsense  am  I  to 
hear  ?     Ask  the  question  quickly,  and  let  me 

go-" 

"You  have  betrayed  my  confidence  ! "  she 
exclaimed  as  soon  as  she  could  command 
her  voice,  for  what  she  believed  to  be  his 
impudence  appalled  her,  made  her  tremble. 
"  And  the  least  you  can  do  is  to  tell  me  to 
whom  you  did  so.  Rememl^er,  as  indeed 
you  must,  the  night  you  exjiressed  to  nie 
your  feelings,  and  when  I  generously  —  I 
must  say  so  —  generously  confessed  to  you 
mine,  believing  you  as  pure  in  heart  as  you 
were  sound  in  head.  That  night  you  asked 
me  the  name  of  the  person  to  wnom  I  had 
I  given  what  you  audaciously  asked   me  to 


RUMOR. 


79 


give  you,  and  which  I  refused  you.  You, 
more  audaciously,  asked  me  the  name  —  I, 
more  generously,  told  it  to  you.  You  asked 
me,  when  I  was  half  Avild  with  terror,  lest 
any  one  should  overhear  us,  and  weak  with 
the  fatigue  of  a  long,  long  night.  I  did 
wrong  —  quite  wrong  ;  and  now  I  know  it ; 
I  judged  you  too  kindly,  I  believed  in  you 
too  confidingly,  and  I  have  met  with  my  re- 
ward ;  for  you  have  revealed  my  secret,  to 
whom,  I  know  not,  nor  when  ;  but  ijou  know, 
for  it  has  become  known,  and  has  created 
wretchedness,  which  for  some  souls  may  be 
eternal." 

"  I  reveal  a  secret !  I  repeat  yotirs  !  "  he 
cried,  in  a  voice,  whose  sudden  anger  made 
her  quail,  for  it  was  like  the  noble  anger  of 
one  unjustly  accused  —  it  was  also  solemn. 
For  he  lifted  his  right  hand, —  "  I  swear  by 
all  the  stars,  by  the  throne  of  Heaven,  and 
Him  who  sits " 

But  the  lady  flew  as  it  were  forward  to- 
wards him,  and  flung  her  hand  across  his 
lips :  "  Spare,  spare  me  that,  and  your  OAvn 
soul." 

But  he  plucked  her  hand  away,  and  threw 
it  from  him ;  his  aspect  struck  her,  for  though 
yet  he  shuddered  with  anger,  he  gazed 
Avildly,  dreamily  around,  . "  I  will  swear,  I 
do  swear,  by  all  you  believe,  and  I  would 
fain  believe.  It  is  you  who  are  false,  lady ; 
a  lie  never  blackened  my  lips.  And  as  for 
ingratitude,  it  is  you  who  are  ungrateful ;  for 
I  was  the  faithfullest  servant  you  had,  and  I 
would  have  served  you  to  your  own  glory. 
/  tell  ?  I  repeat  your  lover's  name  ?  From 
that  night  I  never  recalled  the  name  ;  it  sank 
down  in  my  memory  like  a  stone  in  the  deep 
water.  It  was  only,  I  grant,  when  I  was 
mad,  that  I  wished  to  know  it,  and  I  was 
honorable  enough  to  forget." 

"  I  may,  perha])s,  gain  seme  explanation 
another  way,"  said  the  lady,  sighing,  "  for 
we  both  seem  under  a  hallucination  now. 
That  man's  young  wife  has  found  out  that 
he  loved  me  twenty  years  ago  —  who  told 
her  ?  None  knew  it  but  he,  and  I,  and  you. 
He  did  not  tell  her;  I  asked  him." 

"  And  he  denied  it,  and  you  believe  Mm, 
and  not  me?" 

"  Certainly,  I  believe  him,  for  it  was  not 
—  it  could  not  be  his  interest  to  tell  her, 
and  besides " 

"  Besides,  you  choose  to  believe  him  —  a 
■woman's  reason  !  And  how  was  it  more  my 
interest  than  his  ?  What  have  I  to  do  with 
him,  or  her,  or  you  ?  " 

"  Misery  of  miseries,  there  is  no  end  of  its 
complication  !  Oh,  that  I  could  put  faith  in 
any  one  !  But  hear  to  the  end,  for  you  know 
not  all.  She  was  ill  before,  and  noio  she  is 
believed  to  be  dying  —  it  may  have  killed 
her  —  /  may  have  killed  her !  As  a  last 
hope  for  her  life,  she  is  going  back  to  Italy, 
that  is,  if  her  strength  lasts  long  enough. 
And  she  is  going,  if  she  goes,  without  her 
husband.     She  will  not  even  see  him.    Sup- 


pose she  dies,  what  shall  I  feel  ?  what  will 
yoii  feel,  if  you  have  deceived  me  now  .•'  " 

He  was  looking  down  now,  with  folded 
arms,  trying,  though  she  gave  him  not  credit 
for  the  efl"ort,  to  rack  memory  to  a  confession 
of  what  it  contained  not  —  had  he  confessed, 
indeed,  that  he  was  guilty,  he  would  have 
seemed  to  himself  to  lie. 

"  I  am  tired  out  of  this  farce,"  she  ex- 
claimed, and  truly  she  seemed  so,  impatient 
also,  for  she  thought  he  was  allowing  his 
thoughts  to  wander  from  the  sulyect.  "  Ex- 
cuse me,  but  really  I  am  driven  to  extremity, 
and  refinements  are  out  of  time.  Do  you 
ever  —  have  you  ever,  drunk  wine  lately  ? 
you  never  did  ? " 

"  If  I  say  yes,  perhaps  you  Avill  believe 
that  I  do  riot,""  he  answered  bitterly.  "  And, 
if  Rodomant  did  drink  wine  it  would  never 
make  of  him  a  fool  and  a  villain,  for  wine 
makes  not  fools  and  villains,  but  draws  out 
of  men  who  are  such  their  folly  and  their 
villany.  He  does  not  drink  Avine,  because 
wine  must  be  bought  —  and  he  would  rather 
buy  power.  Nor  does  he  need  wine  to  in- 
spire him,  for  he  has  genius  —  and,  lady, 
genius  is  always  truth." 

To  her  troubled  mind  this  self-defence 
sounded  pure  rodomontade,  an  invention  to 
beguile  her  from  her  purpose.  She  was 
sorely  puzzled  and  deeply  hurt ;  never  had 
she  been  so  disappointed  as  in  him,  and  she 
despised  herself  with  quite  as  unexampled  a 
contempt.  Did  he  deceive  her,  then,  or 
himself?  Strange  paradox  as  it  m^^y  ap- 
pear, he  was  actually  innocent.  Ye(  Jiad  he 
been  as  thorougly  intoxicated  as  .he  worst 
and  meanest  of  men,  he  could  not  more  en- 
tirely have  forgotten  the  circumstances  un- 
der which  he  conveyed  the  meaning  of  the 
truth  ;  if  not  the  truth,  in  words.  He  did 
not  hioic  he  had  told,  for  he  had  not  meant 
to  tell,  Geraldi.  The  greatest  penalty  of 
ideal  genius  is  its  tendency  to  act  on  im- 
pulse ;  motive  it  has  none  —  sJwiild  have 
none,  if  it  is  pure  and  true  to  nature ;  but  in 
proportion  to  its  singleness  and  sincerity  is 
the  danger  that  it  may  involve  others,  and 
the  necessity  that  it  shall  be  constantly  mis- 
understood. In  fact.  Lady  Dclucy  shouhl 
have  died  rather  than  have  revealed,  under 
any  circumstances,  such  a  fact  as  that  Mhich, 
in  the  passion  of  the  hour,  had  seemed  too 
trifling  to  have  any  result  whatever.  We 
ever  err  when  our  endurance  fails  even  for  a 
moment.  And  possibly,  she  should  never 
have  registered  within  her  a  rash  vow  ;  f  )r 
history,  both  sacred  and  secular,  teems  with 
precedented  proofs  that  Providence  dooms 
such  to  punishment  —  rewards  it  never. 

"  Who  then  repeated  —  who  ?  "  she  reit- 
erated in  lower  tones,  yet  impregnated  with 
distrust  rather  than  regret. 

"  She  who  repeated  it  to  one  may  have 
repeated  to  many  a  secret  —  what  differ- 
ence ? "  was  his  reply,  (irreverent  even  for 
him,  and  he  was  never  remarkable  for  ven  ■ 


80 


RUMOR. 


eration.)  To  her  sensitive  ear  it  sounded 
insult ;  it  was  her  duty  to  '  bear  no  more. 
She  left  the  room,  and  he  did  not  look  up 
after  her  —  only  waited  till  she  had  gone,  to 
go.  And  she  heard  and  saw  no  more  of 
Rodomant  himself;  only  received,  a  week 
afterwards,  a  song  whose  title-page  was  em- 
blazoned with  the  vulgarest  designs  in  raw- 
scarlet,  blue,  and  gold,  (aye,  vulgar  as  any 
valentine,)  and  dedicated  to  herself — not 
only  printed  either,  but  published,  too  :  — 

Criiel  as  kind,  and  false  as  true  ! 

Who  but  a  madman  could  dpsire 
Moonlight  with  lightning,  hail  with  dew. 

Sunshine  with  storm,  and  frost  with  fire  ? 
Nightshade  and  violet's  purple  meet 

In  the  spirit-wreath  of  thy  radiant  hair ; 
Gall  is  distilled  with  honey  sweet, 

When  thy  looks  are  fond  and  thy  speech  is  fair. 

Lo !  in  thy  glance  gleams  April  light, 

Smiles  melting  through  a  mist  of  tears, 
And  flashing  on  the  eager  sight 

Till  Bliss  too  beautiful  appears  ! 
Lo !  from  thy  glance  breaks  wild  disdain 

To  strike  the  gentle  gazer  blind. 
And  shafts,  deep  dipped  in  icy  pain, 

Winged  wilful  from  thy  wayward  mind. 

Lo  !  on  fhy  lips  in  summer  sleep, 

The  noon-delighting  rose  is  fed  ; 
Thy  speech  with  sympathy  makes  weep 

The  saddest  heart  whoee  hope  is  dead. 
Lo  !  calm-beguiled  beneath  thy  sight, 

Won  by  thy  mild  voice  to  repose, 
He  writhes  with  sudden  stinging  sleight 

From  scorpions  curled  beneath  thy  rose. 

Slight  as  the  reed  for  slenderness, — 

Hard  as  the  uncut  diamond  gem  — 
Soft  as  the  babe  for  tenderness, 

Harsh  as  the  judge  whose  lips  condemn. 
Rending  the  rainbow  in  thy  wrath, 

Crushing  the  leaf  till  its  spring  is  dead, — 
Trampling  on  hearts  in  thy  daily  path, 

That  thy  hand  had  raised  and  thy  smiles  had  fed 

Long  as  the  proud  neck  bears  the  weight 

Of  thy  fairy  foot,  thou  art  melting  meek ! 
Let  the  proud  heart  but  rise  elate. 

And  thou  spurnest —  starrest  by  a  freak. 
A  stone  let  the  humble  ask  of  Thee, 

And  Thou  givest  fine  bread  of  thine  own; 
Let  him  ask  for  bread,  confiding  free, 

And  lo  !  Thou  givest  him  a  stone. 

Whether  Rodomant  scrawled  the  not  too 
laureate-like  lines  himself,  or  employed  a 
verse-monger,  she  never  knew,  but  they 
proauced  the  impression  upon  her  acquaint- 
ance which  she  would  least  have  desired 
they  should  receive ;  that  she  had  carried 
on  with  the  young  musician  one  of  those 
solemn  farces  called  flirtation,  a  word  she 
abhorred  only  less  than  the  word  of  which 
it  was  the  sign.  It  was,  besides, 'a  pretty 
pendant  to  the  Adelaida,  which  he  had  de- 
signed to  immortalize  her  name  and  his  ; 
this  absurd  effusion.  And  further,  the  sin- 
gular popularity  of  the  former  extended 
also  to  the  latter,  which  as  nearly  attained 
the  burlesque  of  sentiment  as  its  predeces- 
sor had  approached   the  sublime  of  tragic 


passion.  And  it  also  tended  to  produce  a 
confused  idea  of  the  author's  real  merits, 
for  it  elicited  from  the  waspish  renown  of 
Tims  Scrannel's  Avisdom  an  unnecessarily 
elaborate  criticism,  in  which  he  perorated 
on  the  near  affinity  of  genius  with  insanity, 
perhaps  because  himse'lf  so  undeniably  sane. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

On  a  windless  winter  night  a  small,  dark 
figure  stood  alone  upon  the  chief  bridge  of 
the  bright  river  that  sparkles  round  the 
quays  of  Parisinia. 

Parisinia,  the  capital  of  Iris,  a  city  fair  as 
Athens,  in  the  vernal  freshness  of  her  viojetl  ■ 
wreath,  and  awful  in  the  truth  and  tradition 
of  its  history  as  the  annals  of  imperial 
Rome ;  fantastic,  faery,  as  the  changing 
cloudland  of  the  poets,  whose  granite  gates 
and  marmorean  palaces  frown  pale  upon  the 
ground  which  calls  to  Heaven  for  vengeance, 
a  Heaven  as  yet  silent  in  answer  to  its  silent 
cries.  City,  whose  grown-up  children  of- 
to-day  dance  over  the  indistinguishable 
graves  of  her  children  murdered  yesterday; 
whose  intermural  groves  seem  with  their 
summer  sighs  and  creaking  autumn  groans 
to  breathe  eternal  lamentation  over  the  mar- 
tyrdom of  myriads  —  a  martyrdom  unregis- 
tered, unwept. 

Each  day  has  its  saint,  each  saint  his  feast, 
in  Parisima.  To-night  it  is  a  feast  of  lights. 
No  marvel  that  figure  leans  alone  upon  a 
bridge,  for  bridges  and  quays,  palaces, 
bazaars,  and  hovels,  have  poured  forth  their 
people  into  tlfe  streets.  And  he  who  stands 
alone  is  one  to  whom  the  popular  excite- 
ment, the  confused  glare,  the  noise  of  the 
one-ideaed  multitude,  are  poetry  afar  off. 
Above  the  stars  keep  watch  still,  as  if  frozen 
into  the  sky,  the  intense  white  moon  sjjreads 
her  silvery-blue  wing's  wide  as  God's  love, 
upon  the  city.  Below,  there  heaves  a  sea 
of  mingled  mist  and  rainbow,  phantoms  of 
fire  melting  into  ghosts  of  smoke,  flame 
fountains,  and  earth  suns,  mock  lightnings 
and  mimic  moons,  shoot,  rush,  and  spray 
into  the  air,  whose  divine  clarity  they  no 
more  disturb  than  the  surgent  and  sinking 
joy-cries  of  the  grown-up  children  interrupt 
the  calm  chorus  of  the  everlasting  star-song. 
The  figure  in  the  cloak,  with  hat  muffling 
the  brows,  and  white  face  leaning  down- 
wards, to  greet  the  moon's  white  face  in  the 
frost-spelled  water,  was  the  figure  of  Rodo- 
mant. What  doest  thou  there,  Art's  proph- 
et, in  that  region  of  dangerous  delight? 
Once  in  it,  even  if  not  of  it,  can  he  escape 
the  condition  of  moral  mediocrity,  which  its 
intense  civilization,  its  exaggerated  exist- 
ence, its  perfect  worldliness,  engender'' 
On   this  vast   altar  of  ten   thousand  inuo- 


RmiOR. 


81 


cents,  is  his  soul  also  to  be  sacrificed  to  the 
flesh?  Vain  sacrifice,  not  j^ure  as  theirs. 
Not  to  the  flesh,  it  seems.  He  is  thinner 
and  paler  than  ever,  spiritualized  to  the 
utmost  by  intellectual  ambition,  unhuman- 
ized  as  much  as  possible  by  spiritual  pride. 
The  principle  which  religionists  call  the 
devil,  that  defiant  and  unrelenting  power, 
that  loveless  Sathanas,  has  certainly  permis- 
sion to  bestow  the  kingdoms  of  this  world 
and  their  glory,  who  can  doubt  it  ?  For 
its  mast8rj)ieces  of  desire  and  pinnacles  of 
honor — yea,  and  the  strongholds  of  success, 
are  as  surely  his  own  as  the  world  God 
made  ami  breathed  this  beauty  upon,  the 
world  over  which  the  Divinity  of  nature 
spreads  its  dtedal  wings  is  7iot  his  own,  but 
God's.  Truly,  those  who  really  long  after 
the  glory  of  the  world  God  did  7iot  make, 
may  have  it,  though  if  gained  that  dreadful 
guerdon  by  His  own,  He  wrests  it  from 
their  enjoyment  by  all-levelling  sorrow,  or 
the  disappointment  that  cheats  satiety. 

This  demon  in  his  kobes  of  light,  his  ma- 
terial promises  dyed  in  the  deep  lustre  of 
the  supplicant's  golden  imagination,  had 
appeared  to  Rodomant,  as  it  appears  to  all 
at  one  time  or  another,  though  to  none  but 
the  most  choicely  gifted  in  an  attitude  so 
alluring,  and  with  temptations  so  spiritual 
and  so  strong.  In  an  evil  hour  —  for  in 
it  he  lost  his  faith  in  the  only  person  he 
loved  and  honored,  Rodomant  received 
the  first  proof  of  foreign  recognition,  so 
important  to  one  who  has  gained  a  local 
one,  for  he  had  learned  to  look  upon  the 
country  which  first  nurtured  his  -genius  as 
his  home,  and  despised  it  accordingly,  as 
such  natures  are  apt  to  do.  On  his  way  to 
h.'s  lodgings,  after  his  last  interview  with 
La,ly  Delucy,  he  had  called  —  he  scarcely 
knew  why,  to  see  whether  any  other  letter 
had  arrived  at  his  address  ;  and  found  one, 
thus  having  received  two  that  day,  a  cir- 
cumstmce  which,  absurd  as  it  may  appear, 
increased  his  consequence  in  his  own  eyes, 
he  having  received  none  for  months,  except 
acknowledgments  from  his  first  patroness. 
This  second  letter,  when  opened,  proved  to 
be  a  communication  from  the  most  popular 
comj)oser  of  modern  operas,  living  in  Pari- 
sinia,  to  whose  musical  and  dramatic  recrea- 
tion he  was  entirely  devoted.  It  was  an 
address  masonically  majestic  and  fraternal, 
treating  Rodomant  as  his  equal,  by  courtesy, 
for  actually  he  considered  none  equal  with 
himself;  but  it  was  all  the  same  to  Rodo- 
mant, who  was  as  much  his  inferior  in  cun- 
ning as  his  superior  in  art.  And  after  a 
cloud  of  complimentary  words,  there  was 
evolved  a  meaning  which  as  a  tribute  to  his 
genius  Rodomant  implicitly  accepted,  little 
suspecting  that  he  was  being  dealt  with  for 
purposes  of  gain,  that  is  gold,  not  glory. 
He  was  invited  to  come  over  and  criticise 
the  performance  of  his  Alarcos,  before  con- 
du  ting  \t  himself  in  the  most  perfectly 
U 


constructed  theatre  of  Europe,  with  an 
orchestra,  orgbjiized  with  the  same  precision 
as  Parisinia's  militaryj,  force.  It  may  seem 
paradoxical  that  ali5-.:-eomposer,  in  this  age 
of  rivalries,  should  seek  to  advance  the 
interests  of  another  ;  but  this  was  also  a 
manager  on  an  immense  scale,  and  had  suf- 
ficient capital  both  of  money  and  repute  to 
speculate  where  there  was  but  a  ghost  of 
a  risk,  and  to  spend  where  an  outlay  would 
probably  reduplicate  its  own  return. 

Alarcos  had  already  been  produced  in 
Parisinia,  but  at  inferior  houses,  and  though 
Rodomant  had  given  careless  permission  on 
being  paid,  after  his  usual  fashion  of  casting 
off'  things  behind,  and  rushing  onwards,  his 
replies  would  have  been  diff'erent  if  he  had 
had  the  least  idea  how  his  work  was  distorted 
and  defiled  on  those  occasions.  Slill  the 
lower  Parisinians,  whose  taste  for  terror 
seems  imbibed  with  their  mothers',  or  rather 
foster-mothers'  milk,  for  there  are  in  Pari- 
sinia no  mothers  ;  —  the  ranks  of  the  peojile 
were  literally  ])itten  with  the  new  tragedy, 
which,  curtailed  as  it  might  be  in  the  ideal 
portions  of  the  plot,  received  from  the  act- 
ing company  and  scene-painter  its  full 
complement  of  horrors.  Rodomant  had 
unintentionally,  in  choosing  such  a  subject, 
created  what  hundreds  spend  dreary  years 
in  trying  to  invent,  and  fail,  —  an  interest. 
Had  he  felt,  or  been,  one  whit  like  the  Par- 
isinians, he  would  have  shrunk  in  moral 
agony  from  the  interest  he  roused  in  them, 
as  his  physical  nerve  would  have  shuddered 
from  the  contemplation  of  the  machine  for 
murder  which  a  citizen  of  Parisinia  patented. 
But  his  was  so  fine  an  imagination  that  it 
had  power  to  infuse  horror  with  hues  of 
beauty  ;  thus  it  happened,  that  the  match- 
less charm  of  the  music  decided  the  success 
in  England,  of  a  work  whose  bare  tragedy 
would  have  made  it  fail.  But  in  Parisinia 
it  was  the  tragedy,  not  the  music,  upon 
which  the  town  was  mad,  just  as  in  the 
books  of  its  sovereign  novelist,  it  is  the  Ac- 
tive crime,  not  the  retributive  moral,  which 
tells  so  powerfully  upon  the  populace. 

When  the  military  bands,  which  had  been 
stationed  at  different  points  of  the  city  — 
not  near  enough  each  to  each,  to  mix  their 
diapasons  —  ceased,  Rodomant  knew  that  it 
was  the  signal  for  Alarcos.  In  seven  thea- 
tres at  once,  its  first  note  struck  at  the  same 
hour  ;  no  art-furor  had  ever  been  so  univer- 
sal, or  endured  longer,  except  a  rage  of 
blood.  A  necessary  condition  to  enjoy  a 
passing  triumph,  is  a  calm,  what  it  is  almost 
im])ossible  to  procure  in  England,  where 
there  is  neither  a  social  arrangement,  an  art- 
exposition,  nor  a  design  for  architecture, 
without  a  flaw.  Rodomant  pressed  through 
the  illuminated  streets  unnoticed,  which  was 
just  what  he  approved,  —  for  he  detested 
contact  with  common  persons,  —  and  was 
met  at  the  door  of  the  theatre  by  a  deputa- 
tion  of  famous   men,   all    treating   him    lU 


82 


RUMOR. 


though  he  alone  were  famous,  whifh  he  ap- 
proved as  much.  Nor  did  they  pester  hira 
with  too  prolonged  or  multitudinous  a  pres- 
ence, for  they  only  accompanied  him  to  the 
door  of  the  box  of  the  first  celebrity  among 
them,  a  prince  of  literarians ;  then  vanish- 
ing, left  him  with  the  owner  himself,  who, 
fifter  standing  till  Rodomant  was  seated, 
bowed,  and  removed  also  to  the  other  corner, 
larthest  from  his  guest.  This  box  had  been 
selected  for  Rodomant,  because  he  wished 
to  be  himself  unseen,  and  the  literarian, 
among  other  luxuries,  had  ordained  screens 
of  fine  wire  to  extend  along  the  front  of  the 
box,  impervious  to  lights  without,  though 
•emi-diaphanous  from  within. 

There  is  not  in  the  world  a  dramatic  audi- 
ence so  refined  and  so  audacious  as  that  of 
Parisinia  ;  no  critic  arbitrates  for  the  crowd 
—  it  is  a  crowd  of  critics.  Disappoint  it  — 
balk  its  passion  for  the  novel,  and  it  bris- 
tles like  a  monstrous  snake,  whose  hiss  is 
the  sure  and  instant  indicator  of  its  poison- 
ing sentence.  Fascinate  it  by  a  shock  of 
novelty,  some  fresh  color  added  to  its  Iris, 
and  it  will  fawn  at  your  feet,  wreathe  round 
you  a  calm  enchanted  circle,  the  glare  of  its 
glance  melt  to  a  softer  light  than  smiles,  its 
fangs  drop  honey. 

The  fascination  of  the  hour  —  his  own  — 
yet  reflected  back  to  him  after  he  dispensed 
It,  crept  on  Rodomant,  and  conquered.  It 
was  the  hour  in  which  he  first  both  tasted 
luxury  and  drank  its  fulness  —  luxury,  ideal 
and  sensuous  —  the  perfume  with  the  flower. 
He  had  never  been  idle  to  enjoy  before,  and 
labor  may  be  love,  but  to  a  delicate  frame  it 
is  never  pleasure.  Then  he  sank  into  cush- 
ions which  supported,  while  they  yielded  the 
softest  rest  —  rest  v/ithout  sleep,  the  rarest ; 
BO  trifle  this,  for  it  is  impossible  for  a  sensi- 
tive nature  to  enjoy  any  thing  under  circum- 
stances of  physical  discomfort.  And  when 
he  looked  out  in  front,  he  saw  that  great 
eight,  a  mighty  multitude  possessed  with  the 
spirit  of  the  hour,  totally  unlike  an  English 
crowd,  with  its  restless,  ignorant,  and  divided 
Interest.  Here  a  phalanx  of  faces  glittered, 
with  an  expression  one-like,  absolute,  pale 
with  eagerness,  sti-ained  with  ex])ectation  ;  a 
galaxy  of  glances  fixed  and  ardent,  which 
seemed  to  devour  what  they  gazed  on.  Rod- 
omant shivered  like  an  aspen  when  that 
great  vision  spread  before  him  ;  he  believed 
them  spelled  by  the  sacred  theurgy  of  art ; 
he  dreamed  that  from  the  heaven  of  his 
imagination  he  had  rained  upon  them  that 
manna  of  the  spirit  —  sweet  as  the  food 
of  angels  —  a  universal  sympathy.  Little 
guessed  he  that  but  for  the  scenic  sorcery 
unrolled  Ijefore  them,  they  would  not  have 
listened,  or  that,  Hke  fi:-e  to  the  salamander, 
was  to  them  their  natural  atmosphere  of  fear. 
What  tended  to  deceive  him  most  was  the 
music  itself,  an  immense  orchestra  not  inter- 
preted, but  produced  it  as  it  originally  stood. 
In  England  it  is  impossible  to  make  a  great 


orchestra  of  one  min^  ;  in  Germany  orches- 
tras ai"e  small,  though  generally  perfect. 
Parisinia's  taste,  the  quality  which  she  alone 
possesses,  is  infused  into  art  as  into  fashion, 
so  entirely  to  charm  the  senses,  that  the  soul 
through  them  has  no  appeal  to  make. 

Rodomant  worshipped  himself  that  night, 
and  believed  himself  adored.  There  was  no 
fatigue  in  store  for  him,  his  was  too  inex- 
haustible a  nature,  his  own  music  refreshed 
and  strengthened  him  till  he  was  equal  to 
any  eff'ort.  Had  it  not  been  so,  he  might 
have  shrunk  from  the  advances  of  the  gentle- 
man in  the  box  with  him,  who,  immediately 
the  curtain  fell,  came  to  him  and  requested 
his  company  that  night — he  said  not  to  a 
party — there  are  no  cant  terms  in  Parisinia; 
but  he  conveyed  to  him  the  impression  that 
he  did  him  the  highest  honor  it  was  in  his 
power  to  confer  on  one  so  high.  This  man 
spoke  Rodomanl's  own  language,  and  as 
they  met  one  another  in  passing  out,  acted 
as  his  interpreter.  Nothing  can  convey  the 
compliments  the  rest  paid  Rodomant,  too 
delicate  to  be  crystallized  into  any  other 
tongue,  and  it  was  their  manner,  through 
which  he  imbibed  the  essence  of  their  cour- 
tesy, sweet,  if  cold  as  the  ice-confection  for 
which  their  banquets  are  renowned.  Still, 
it  was  only  to  these  few,  who  were  the  un- 
known to  the  many,  that  Rodomant  was  in- 
troduced on  his  way  to  his  entertainer's 
house.  He  was  to  remain  incognito,  as  far 
as  the  public  was  concerned,  until  he  per- 
formed a  self-inauguration  by  conducting 
Alarcos  ;  this  arrangement  also  pleased  him 
well. 

In  the  rooms  he  entered  with  his  conduc- 
tor, he  met  again  all  those  to  whom  he  had 
been  introduced,  many  others  —  not  too  many 

—  and  many  women.  He  was  a  neojjhyte 
quite  prepared  to  reverence  a  social  system 
which  lent  such  reverence  to  art ;  for  to  do 
the  Parisinians  justice,  there  is  much  uncon- 
scious and  childlike  generosity  in  their  rec- 
ognition of  genius;  but  then,  perhaps,  their 
passion  of  novelty  is  as  childish  too.  Rodo- 
mant had  never  actually  seen  society,  except 
at  a  bookseller's  house  in  London,  —  nay,  the 
house  of  a  puritanically  disposed    publisher, 

—  no  free-handed,  generous  minded  one,  such 
as  exist,  thank  Providence,  and  are  tht 
Providence  of  genius.  x\nd  those  'whom 
there  he  met,  he  met  in  the  presence,  nay,  by 
the  side  of  a  woman  not  too  knowing  to  be 
wise,  nor  too  experienced  to  be  innocent.  If 
he  thought  that  gaud-besprent  gingerbread 
drawing-room  an  ambassador's,  he  might 
well  be  pardoned  for  esteeming  that  in  which 
he  found  himself,  a  saloon  of  the  chief  and 
central  palace  of  the  regnant  of  Parisinia.  It 
seemed,  to  his  artistic  and  unsophisticated 
appreciation,  not  a  room  at  all,  but  a  temple, 
dedicated  to  nymphs  and  oreads,  delicate 
footed  fauns,  and  bearded  satyrs.  There 
was  space  —  for  the  Parisinians,  if  they  sleep 
at  all,  winch  seems  mythic,  sl^ep  in  carpet- 


RUMOR. 


83 


less  cloaets,  on  pallets  a  prisoner  would  de- 
spise, dedicating  all  the  room  to  effect,  and 
full  dress  hiding  dress,  the  perfection  of  taste, 
as  the  perfection  of  art  hides  art.  And  as  it 
is  space,  which  more  than  anj'  thing  lends 
illusion  to  the  cathedral  and  the  theatre,  so 
here,  in  a  private  assembly,  the  same  effect 
obtained.  And  for  ornament ;  scarcely  an- 
other was  employed  than  flowers ;  floAvers 
wreathed  the  walls,  and  hung  in  long  ten- 
drils from  alabaster  vases,  and  rested  on  fiiir 
bosoms,  while  they  blushed  in  dark  locks. 
If  few  of  them  were  real,  what  signified  it? 
they  all  seemed  so,  and  for  one,  Rodomant 
did  not  know  it. 

But  innocence  is  incompatible  with  wis- 
dom, though  purity  from  wisdom  never  sepa- 
rates ;  to  know  no  evil  is  to  know  nothing 
that  can  make  us  of  service  to  others  in  this 
evil  world.  And  there  is  no  shock  so  great, 
yet  so  tempered  by  its  sadness,  as  the  en- 
trance of  the  knowledge  of  evil  to  the  pure. 
Against  temptations,  the  strongest  to  ordi- 
nary men,  Rodomant  wore  a  double  armor; 
his  spiritual  imagination  and  strong  sense 
of  the  absurd.  It  has  been  said  that  tragedy 
purifies  the  passions  ;  it  is  certain  that  com- 
edy holds  the  most  in  check.  And  as  for 
the  blind  baby-instinct,  which  is  in  ordinary 
cases  the  last  relic  of  infancy  in  youth,  —  so 
soon  stripped  from  it,  like  the  latest  blossom 
of  the  spring,  —  Rodomant  had  it  not;  he 
had  never  been  like  a  child,  —  even  in  the 
cradle  stamped  with  prematurity,  —  indeed, 
being  one  of  those  peculiar  and  exceptional 
natures  who  seem  not  to  grow  older,  but 
younger,  as  thev  advance  in  years.  An  al- 
most cynical  indifference  to  woman  was  the 
angel  of  Rodomant's  life,  a  stern  and  uncom- 
promising genius,  albeit  good,  engendering 
in  him  an  exaggerated  idea  of  what  woman 
ought  to  be.  That  man  should  err  in  the 
act  of  gaining  experience,  seemed  to  him 
natural  and  necessary,  if  not  right ;  but  he 
also  held  the  opinion,  that  woman  must  be 
perfect,  or  her  spell  were  broken ;  higher 
than  the  angels  a  little,  as  man  was  a  little 
lower.  A  purism  peculiar  in  one  so  ardent- 
ly imaginative,  and  which  in  puritanic  Scot- 
land might  have  made  him  a  proselyte  (for 
■ne  phase  of  his  being)  to  the  most  detest- 
able of  spctar'an  creeds:  but  which  in  profli- 
gate Parisinia  clothed  his  soul  M-ith  safety, 
as  asbestos  sheathes  the  frame  from  fire. 

Still,  for  escape  there  might  have  been  a 
struggle ;  the  flame  might  have  scorched, 
though  it  had  no  power  to  consume,  but  for 
tlie  suddenness  —  equal  to  the  completeness 
of  the  revelation.  An  introduction  step  by 
step ;  an  initiation,  hint  by  hint,  and  he 
might  for  a  moment  have  bent  the  knee  to 
Baal,  have  worshii)ped  one  hour  the  corrup- 
tion Sense  had  deified. 

Directly  he  entered,  he  had  diverted  him- 
self by  looking  at  all  the  women.  This  was 
natural,  and  also  natural  that  at  the  first 
glance  he  should  admu'e  them  inexpressibly 


—  they  were  so  gay  yet  so  gentle  ;  all  talked 
so  easily,  yet  in  such  light,  low  tones. 
For  it  is  an  error,  of  general  acceptation 
nevertheless,  that  the  Avomen  of  Parisinia  are 
rattles,  that  they  have  no  repose  of  manner, 
and  possess  uncommon  vivacity  instead  of 
co'^mon  intelligence.  Now,  it  is  a  fact,  that 
the  women  of  the  lower  orders,  if  illiterate, 
are  all  gossips  in  all  the  countries  of  Eurojse  ; 
and  it  is  to  be  hoped  that  the  educated  avo- 
men  of  every  other  country,  leave  to  England 
the  loud  talk,  louder  laughter,  and  very 
slight  self-possession  which  are  modern  fosb- 
ions  among  the  English  fair.  But  the  refined 
women  of  Parisinia  are  not  only  ideals  of 
taste,  but  models  of  tact  also ;  for  they  en- 
chant without  beauty,  and  almost  always 
without  grace ;  they  smile  by  Art,  make 
love  by  Art  —  their  whole  lives  testify  to  Art's 
abuse,  when  violently  separated  from  Nature, 
whose  monitions  govern  conscience,  for  the 
pure  in  heart 

Rodomant's  companion,  still  standing  by 
his  side,  introduced  him  to  several  of  these 
women  —  singers  and  actresses  ;  one  or  two 
writers  of  epicene  repute  among  general 
readers,  but  known  as  women  by  famous  men. 
Now  Rodomant,  though  self-cultured,  was  no 
slave  to  art;  he  served  it  in  a  free  spirit,  and 
had  ranged  the  superficies  of  modern  univer- 
sal literature  as  those  of  his  social  station  are 
able  to  do  in  no  country  as  in  Germany.  He 
had  read,  therefore,  the  finest  translations 
into  its  all-ennobling  tongue  ;  but  for  French 
novels  he  had  no  taste  —  with  one  exception  ; 
a  tale  with  its  scene  laid  in  Germany,  dedi- 
cated to  the  two  holiest  subjects  in  his  young 
esteem  ;  the  developement  of  musical  art, 
and  the  philosophy  of  lawful  love  —  a  perfect 
book,  perhaps  the  most  perfect  romance  that 
ever  issued  from  the  press  in  any  country. 
Rodomant  had  thought  it  written  by  a  man, 
for  a  man's  name  was  on  its  title  sheet  ;  but 
he  learned  this  night  that  it  was  a  woman's, 
and  that  its  authoress  was  present.  Soon  she 
passed  him  —  a  woman  of  a  noble  counte- 
nance, almost  a  divine  expression  ;  eyes  the 
thoughtfuUest,  and  brightest,  almost  an  in- 
fantine-innocence beaming  from  her  splendid 
brow.  Almost,  and  where  not  quite,  what 
was  the  thing  wanting?  He  knew  not,  yet 
felt  as  he  gazed ;  but  it  was  something  vot 
wanting  in  her  books,  for  therein  Art  sup- 
plied the  loss  of  Nature. 

Still,  Rodomant's  interest  was  seriously 
excited ;  he  took  pains  to  question  his  com- 
panion ;  he  expressed  ignorance,  and  a 
desire  to  be  enlightened,  little  dreaming 
what  he  should  hear.  For  he  learned,  in 
about  half  an  hour,  that  as  for  that  Avoman, 
not  only  the  man  she  lived  Avith,  on  Avhose 
arm  she  leaned,  Avas  not  her  husband,  but 
that  she  had  a  husband  also.  That,  of  the 
other  women,  not  one  present  was  the  wife 
of  him  to  AA-hom  she  seemed  one.  It  was 
no  exceptional  infraction  of  a  law  as  natural 
as    it   is    moral  —  no  isolated  instance  of 


84 


lUMOR. 


mai-riage  tlu'ough  hatred  dissolved,  by  the 
law  of  nature  greater  than  that  of  custom ; 
but  it  was  in  Parisinia,  literarj',  dramatic 
Pai-isinia,  Society's  exemplar  —  the  rule  of 
life. 

Now,  after  his  communications,  made  with 
smiling  lips,  in  calm  tones,  as  though  he 
spoke  of  what  must  be,  and  therefore  should 
be,  the  literarian  expected  a  bow  or  assent 
of  sympathy,  at  least,  if  not  an  outburst  of 
free  and  frantic  sentiment.  But  even  he, 
accustomed  to  every  shift  of  the  mask  of 
mannerism,  started  at  the  dark  disapproba- 
tion which  gathered  to  the  brow  of  his  young 
listener,  the  flash  of  his  eye,  like  lightning 
through  a  cloud,  the  unmistakable  recoil, 
thouirh  there  Avas  no  movement  of  the  head 
or  limb.  Was  Rodomant  a  pupil  of  Ven- 
tura, and  yet  the  composer  of  an  opera  tlie 
most  secular,  if  not  profane  P  Nor  could 
the  older  and  more  unhappily  experienced 
set  down  the  strong  antipathy  of  the  younger 
to  his  green  and  pliant  youth  ;  his  frame  was 
too  sturdy,  if  not  robust,  his  facial  lines  too 
strong,  his  eye  too  keen  and  angry. 

Rodomant  from  that  moment  hated  his 
position,  and  longed  to  change  it ;  so  did 
the  other,  and  a  chance  soon  favored  both. 
There  had  been  neither  music  nor  dancing 
until  that  moment,  at  the  absence  of  which 
Rodomant  had  been  too  absorbed  to  won- 
der. But  now,  under  a  delicate  but  sweep- 
ing touch,  a  pianoforte  began  to  sound  — 
somewhere  in  the  arch-separated  saloons  — 
though  the  ])layer  could  not  be  perceived. 
It  was  one  of  those  modern  pianofortes 
which  a  bravurist  knocks  to  pieces  in  the 
course  of  one  concert.  No  bravurist  pre- 
sided here,  but  of  what  school  of  art  the 
performer  was  a  student  or  master,  Rodo- 
mant could  not  guess ;  he  had  never  met 
with  such  a  one  before.  The  performance 
was  a  measure  in  triple  time,  neither  ma- 
zurka nor  waltz,  resembling  both  in  its  sub- 
ject, but  too  fleetly  hurried  into  a  maelstrom 
of  chromatic  harmonies,  the  embryos  of  a 
hundred  ideas  born  prematurely  and  dying 
formless  —  or  rather  subsiding  each  into 
eacli,  effectless  —  as  water  blends  with  water. 
r  brushed  past  Rodomant's  strong  and 
h9althy  brain  like  a  chaos  of  the  faintest 
echoes,  a  whirl  of  the  phantoms  of  perished 
sounds ;  but  to  the  morbidly  rarefied  per- 
ceptions of  the  rest  present,  it  was  a  seizure 
of  violent  excitement,  a  sudden  mania  for 
universal  motion.  Every  couple  present 
slid  as  it  were  into  each  other's  arms  — 
waltzed,  but  it  can  hardly  be  called  waltzing 
—  they  seem  blown  in  circles  by  gusts  of 
mi  pulse,  while  wider  and  wider  spread  the 
meshes  of  tne  melody,  and  closer  and  closer 
grew  the  threadings  of  the  accompaniment, 
a  web  of  w'tchery  no  easier  for  the  en- 
chanted to  l)reak  than  Maimouna's  silken 
line. 

Rodomant  was  not  enchanted;  he  gazed 
with  contempt,  too  lofty  for  the  occasion,  ou 


the  gyrations  of  the  possessed.  Suddenly, 
and,  as  it  were,  between  the  spokes  of  tlia 
M-heeling  vision,  he  i)erceived  an  apparition 
contrasting  by  its  calm  with  the  active  frenzy 
of  the  croAvd.  A  man,  standing  perfectly 
still,  his  figure  darkly  defined  against  the 
rose-colored  silk  curtain  which  was  dropped 
between  the  farthest  arch  and  the  recess 
where  the  instrument  was  placed ;  for  Pari- 
sinia's  last  new  art-toy,  her  pet  pianist,  was 
fi:ir  too  fastidious  and  nerve-tortured  to 
endure  the  gaze  of  the  multitude.  Now 
Rodomant  was  attracted  to  this  man,  as  he 
believed,  solely  because  he  was  standing 
still,  and  the  only  person  present  who  ap- 
peared able  to  keep  still  besides  himself; 
and  as  Rodomant  al-ways  acted  on  impulse, 
though  he  was  unaff"ected  by  the  impulse  to 
waltz,  he  walked  straight  out  from  the  wall 
to  join  him  whom  he  admired,  only  because 
that  being  was  behaving  like  himself.  Ro- 
domant took  no  pains  to  avoid  the  dancers ; 
on  the  contrary,  he  maliciously  hoped  that 
he  might  trip  one  or  two  of  them  up  —  no 
such  thing  —  the  tact  of  Parisinians  perme- 
ates them  from  head  to  foot ;  they  never 
trip,  either  in  address  or  step,  and  all  they 
did  was  with  seeming  unconsciousness  to 
shrink  into  closer  circles  as  he  approached, 
and  leave  him  a  clear  path  through  them. 
Thus,  without  the  gratification  of  rendering 
any  one  ridiculous,  he  reached  his  destina 
tion  ;  still  dark  against  the  roseate  back- 
ground stood  the  calm,  unyielding  figure, 
for  the  man  to  Avhom  he  was  attracted  did 
not  lean  nor  lounge  ;  he  stood  upright,  firm, 
as  if  his  feet  were  rooted  to  the  ground  ; 
and  further,  his  aspect  made  Rodomant  de- 
spise himself,  for  having  glanced  at  all  at  the 
frivolities  which  frittered  the  hour ;  for  his 
countenance  was  casted  with  indifference, 
not  contempt,  and  his  eyes  seemed  shut,  so 
lieavily  the  lids  were  dropped,  nor  did  the 
balls  quiver.  Was  ho  asleep  ?  thought  Ro- 
domant. Could  he  sleep  standing,  like  a 
horse  ?  That  question  was  soon  settled,  for 
the  moment  Rodomant  took  his  stand  by 
his  side,  as  though  he  meant  to  stay,  the 
other  opened  his  eyes,  and  turned  them, 
without  moving  a  muscle,  to  look  at  him. 
It  was  an  instantaneous  glance  —  no  stare, 
and  the  look  not  lustrous,  the  eye's  light 
languid  as  that  of  the  sun  when  ray-shoi'u 
and  half-blinded  by  a  summer  heat-mist. 
"  Oh,  that  he  Avould  look  at  me  again,' 
thought  Rodomant ;  "  does  he  admire  or 
despise  me  ?  and  why  should  I  care  which  ?  " 
Why,  indeed  ?  he  is  no  musician,  nor  poet, 
nor  art-enthusiast ;  men  call  him  visionary, 
hut  are  visions  parents  to  their  own  fulfil- 
ment ?  are  they  built  up,  dream  by  dream, 
into  solid  towers  of  pride,  whose  top  shall 
touch  the  heavens? 

Rodomant  cared,  because  it  was  a  neces- 
sity of  his  soul  to  care,  a  necessity  suddenly 
aroused,  if  not  created.  As  diamond  cuts 
diamond,  so  does  genius  recognize  genius, 


RUMOR. 


85 


and  it  only,  with  utter  appreciation.  A  man 
of  genius  may  be  flattered  by  the  admiration 
of  the  crowd  — that  is  not  recognition  ;  it  is 
that  the  real  gem  resembles  the  counterfeit 
as  the  counterfeit  mocks  the  real ;  the  crowd 
will  acknowledge  either,  and  mistake  very 
easily  the  one  for  the  other.  But  with  the 
admiration  of  the  crowd  true  genius  is  never 

■  satisfied  ;  by  its  peers  alone  will  it  be  judged, 
only    accept    their    sentence.      For   genius 

'  knows  that  with  its  brother  genius  dwells  no 
envy — only  a  great  and  loving  jealousy, 
which  urges  the  brother  to  loftier  flights  of 
imagination,  and  profounder  utterances  from 
the  oracle  of  wisdom  :  a  jealousy  pure  as 
that  of  the  prophet,  "  jealous "  for  the 
honor  of  the  Most  High. 

Never  had  any  man  —  and  only  one  wo- 
\  man  —  attracted  Rodomant  before.  Never 
had  he  before  been  mastered,  for  none 
could  master  him  but  his  superior  in  ambi- 
tion —  not  music.  He  did  not  know  this, 
any  more  than  he  knew  that  he  was  sub- 
dued ;  had  he  known  it,  he  would  have 
burst  away.  And  his  ignorance  of  the 
spell  set  upon  him  proved  its  strength. 
There  was  a  likeness  between  him  and  this 
man  —  a  singular  resemblance,  and  yet  a 
difl'eri'nce  more  remarkable.  Rodomant 
jjerceived  the  likeness,  and  was  delighted  to 
observe  that  he  was  no  plainer  than  the 
stranger  —  on  the  contrary,  the  stranger 
was  plainer  than  he.  They  were  both  the 
same  height  to  an  inch,  both  small  and 
spare,  both  of  the  strongest  make ;  but  the 
stranger  looked  as  if  his  muscles  were 
wrapped  close  together,  and  riveted  with 
iron  ;  in  Rodomant  the  articulation  was  con- 
stantly perceptible  from  his  constant  rest- 
lessness. The  stranger's  hand  was  small  as 
Rodomant's,  but  stiff  and  still,  yet  looking, 
even  in  repose,  as  if  its  grasp  could  stran- 
gle; Rodomant's  had  the  free  fling  of  tbe 
])ractised  musician  ;  it  hung  light  and  loose 
from  the  wrist.  On  both  their  faces  lines 
of  nervous  sufl'en'ng  were  drawn ;  but  Rod- 
omant's assisted  in  the  caprices  of  expres- 
sion, for  they  melted  and  reappeared  ac- 
cording to  his  moods  of  pleasure  or  disgust; 
the  stranger's  were  carven  like  hieroglyphs 
on  granite,  and  as  mysterious  ;  calm  and 
endurant,  but  not  to  be  translated  by  men. 
His  brow  was  swart,  yet  sallovv  —  darkly 
])ale,  darker  by  multitudinous  shades  than 
the  keen  heights  of  Rodomant's  noble  fore- 
head, yet  square  like  that  forehead  at  the 
base,  and  sloping  instead  of  rising  —  like 
his  —  into  hair  without  curl,  but  waving, 
short  and  wirily,  all  over ;  while  Rodomant's 
tossed  here  and  there,  finely  fluttering  in 
every  breath.  And  certainly  in  detail  the 
features  of  both  diff'ered  decidedly  enough  ; 
for  Rodomant's  nose,  though  powerful  and 
fastidious,  was  short  and  not  large  ;  that  of 
the  other  was  far  too  large  for  beauty,  with 
a  wide  nostril,  breathing  subtlety,  yet, 
itrange  to  say,  fastidious  too.     As  for  Rod- 


omant's mouth,  its  thin  lines  were  clear  tc 
the  eye  ;  but  that  of  the  stranger  remained, 
even  to  Rodomant,  a  mystery,  for  not  a 
trace  of  it  was  perceptible  under  the  im- 
mense, thick-trimmed  moustache  ;  though 
the  chin  and  jaw  —  the  stronijhold  of  voli- 
tion —  were  shaven  as  smooth  as  Rodo- 
mant's. And  therein  reigned  the  likeness 
supremely,  both  wei^  so  strong,  so  solid, 
with  an  expression  at  once  austere  and  eager. 

But  the  eye  —  that  sun  and  centre  of  ex- 
pression—  diff'ered  more  from  Rodomant's 
than  the  whole  firmament  of  eyes  in  the 
room  that  night ;  strange  eyes,  of  no  color 
that  eyes  should  be  —  of  no  color  save  the 
color  of  the  sea,  yet  neither  its  deep  blue 
calm,  nor  its  sparkling,  sunny  emerald  ;  but 
the  hue  of  the  heavy  waves  rolling  sullen 
beneath  a  sea  of  cloud ;  the  green  not  clear, 
but  turbid,  and  the  foam  not  white,  but 
gray.  And  gloomy  as  the  sea-hung  cloud, 
there  haloed  the  eyes  a  rim  of  deep  brown 
shadow,  imparting  to  each  iris  an  intense 
softness,  in  which  the  pupils  seemed  not  to 
rest  but  float.  Further,  this  man  Avas 
dressed,  like  Rodomant,  in  black ;  like 
Rodomant,  he  wore  neither  ribbon-end  nor 
order-bauble,  and  in  his  air,  whether  real  or 
assumed,  was  of  as  utter  simplicity  as  Rodo- 
mant's. But  again  there  interposed  a  con- 
trast between  their  modes  of  address  ;  be- 
tween Rodomant's  reckless  ingenuousness 
where  he  took  a  fancy,  and  the  other's  im- 
pregnable reserve.  This  final  dissimilitude 
piqued  Rodomant  to  his  most  audacious 
'  behavior,  which  was  in  fact  his  best,  be- 
j  cause  most  natural. 

"  Well,"  said  he  abruptly,  in  bad  Parisin- 
I  ian  —  grammatically  bad,  as  he  had  only 
!  picked  a  few  sentences  out  of  a  pronouncing 
dictionary — "  this  is  the  true  black  or  unlaw- 
ful Art,  and  what  do  ive  here,  assisting  at  its 
impious  rites  ?    What  has  bitten  them  all  ?  " 

"  A  spider,  I  believe  they  call  it,"  answered 
the  other,  slowly  and  between  a  slow  half 
yawn. 

Now  Rodomant  had  never  heard  of  the 
tarantula.  "  Quite  a  mistake,"  he  said,  "  it 
is  a  member  of  a  society  of  apes,  with  an 
Englishwoman  for  his  mother.  Some  mis- 
sionaries —  Moravians  no  doubt  "  —  this 
with  a  private  domestic  sneer  — "  made  a 
settlement  in  the  monkey-islands,  carrjing 
with  them  a  pianoforte,  and  an  old  maid 
apiece  for  each  pug,  as  bribes.  And  having 
baptized  and  trained  one  of  the  off"spriug, 
packed  it  off  to  Europe  for  exposition,  on 
purpose  to  foil  7ne." 

"  Surely  you  are  no  artist  ?  "  questioned 
the  stranger,  in  a  dubious  tone. 

"  What  else  should  such  as  I  be  ? " 
growled  the  other. 

"  I  asked  for  information  •  but  you  look 
like  a  man  of  sense  — you  suggest  wit  also, 
and  a  knowledge  of  the  world  —  but  above 
all  you  look  sensible." 

"  And  why  7iot  an  artist  and  also  a  man 


86 


RUMOR. 


of  sense,  wit,  knowledge  of  the  -world  — 
how  an  artist  without  ?  "  Here  Rodomant 
blundered  into  German.  To  his  surprise  the 
stranger  went  on  in  German  too,  easily,  if 
lazily  pronounced. 

"  it  is  simply  impossible  ;  I  do  not  speak 
of  mediocrity,  or  the  perfection  ef  mechanic 
skill,  but  of  a  king-artist." 

"  Right  term,"  nodded  Rodomant.  "  Dear 
me,  are  you  also  one  ?  " 

"  Quite  another,  the  fiirthest  from  it ;  but 
I  comprehend  the  principle  of  all  dominant 
aspirations  —  to  be  first,  or  die.  I  was 
going  to  observe  that  one  man  can  only  suc- 
ceed well  in  one  thing  —  can  only  be  perfect 
through  concentration —  that  is,  can  be  hut 
one." 

"  Well,"  said  Rodomant,  "  and  what  is 
God  ? "  reverently,  yet  innocently,  using 
the  world's  name  for  the  Supreme,  as  the 
German-child  uses  the  Christ's  name,  child 
to  child.  The  stranger,  who  of  all  races 
least  favored  German,  looked  dubiously,  as 
before  he  had  spoken  ;  he  lacked  the  fluency 
of  Rodomant. 

"  I  will  answer  you,"  said  the  latter,  who 
could  not  bear  to  wait  — "  God  is  Love. 
And  yet  in  that  word  who  dares  to  say  that 
all  attributes  of  good  and  genius  are  not 
comprehended  ?  Power  to  create  and  de- 
stroy ;  to  try  the  pure,  and  judge  the  base ; 
retribution  and  reward  in  His  right  hand 
and  in  His  left." 

"  Stay, "  said  the  stranger,  "  I  cannot  fol- 
low you  ;  you  are  out  of  your  depth,  or  /  am 
drowned  in  the  shallowest.  I  merely  meant 
to  convey  —  for  actually  it  is  but  an  acces- 
sory, at  the  best,  of  which  we  are  treating 
—  that  one  man  can  only  do  one  thing 
well." 

"  And  you  suppose,  sir,  that  Art,  as  you 
call  it,  is  but  one  thing  ?  Creation  is  pro- 
gressive, though  Nature  is  permanent.  The 
seasons  are  born  fresh  every  year ;  we  change 
our  bodies  once  in  seven,  yet  all  remains,  for 
the  chain  of  facts  as  of  ideas  is  ever  conse- 
quential, yet  incomplete,  as  Time  is  incom- 
plete without  Eternity,  and  Eternity  has  no 
end.  Artists  are  nearer  Heaven  than  most 
men,  for  they  best  carry  out  the  notion  of  i 
continuity." 

"  I  give  it  up,"  said  the  other,  "  for  if  I 
WHS  nearly  drowned  before  in  the  depth,  I  have 
nC'W  nearly  lost  my  breath  in  the  rarefied 
height  of  your  metaphysics.  But  I  value 
Art's  amenities,  and  if  1  were  at  the  head, 
s-ould  encourage  them  —  they  should  be  the 
mxuries  of  the  poor  as  they  are  necessaries 
to  the  hixurious  of  the  rich." 

"  Condescending,"  said  Rodomant,  "  but 
as  you  are  not  at  tlie  head,  as  you  call  it,  nor 
likely  to  be  in  a  position  to  command  me,  it 
matters  just  nothing.  But  what  do  you  call 
amenities  ?  what  we  have  just  heard  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  heard  a  note  ;  I  did  not 
listen."  j 

"  I  would  malce  you  listen  to  me."  I 


"  I  have  heard  you  alreadj-." 

"  You  mean  Alarcos  ?  "  asked  Rodomant, 
pettishly.  "  Well,  if  you  don't  like  that, 
and  can't  enter  into  it,  and  don't  allow  that 
1  am  at  the  head  there,  why  it  is  of  no  con- 
sequence what  you  think,  and  I  have  ren- 
dered  myself  ridiculous  fur  the  f^-st  time  in 
my  life  in  talking  to  you,  and  it  is  what  I 
deserve  for  coming  into  company,  which  I 
detest  as  I  hate  the  devil,  and  where  alone 
it  .^ems  to  me  one  meets  him." 

"  But  I  like  it,  I  enter  into  it,  I  allow  you 
at  the  head  there.  I  feigned  at  first,  for  1 
wished  to  see  whether  any  one  so  suddenly- 
exalted  could  be  sincere  and  sensible  :  for  I 
do  hold  to  my  first  opinion,  that  without 
sense  a  man  never  consolidated  a  design, 
nor  met  save  with  furtive  successes.  But 
more  than  this;  listen — I,  who  never 
thanked  a  man  before,  I  am  gratetul  to  you, 
for  you  have  helped  me  —  you  have  sliorlened 
my  tvay,  perhaps  by  many  steps." 

There  was  such  intense  meaning  in  these 
few  words,  that  they  tortured  Rodomant's 
taste  for  the  mysterious.  "  Tell  me  —  tell 
me  !  "  he  called  out,  and  stamped  upon  the 
floor,  though  the  stamp  was  smotliered  in 
the  thick-piled  mat  on  which  he  stood,  and 
gave  no  sound.  And  he  glared  his  gray 
eyes  upon  the  stranger.  But  the  stranger 
made  no  sign  ;  the  cast,  as  it  were,  slipped 
back  over  his  countenance  ;  down  fell  the 
lids,  expressionless  as  sleep  ;  and  Rodomant 
felt  that  he  might  as  well  address,  expecting 
an  answer  from,  a  stone. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

At  that  very  moment,  the  lady  of  the 
house,  —  for  there  was  a  lady  of  the  house, 
though  no  master,  came  up  to  Rodomant, 
requesting  him  to  play.  And  it  struck 
Rodomant,  intuitively,  that  it  had  been  her 
approach  on  the  cessation  of  the  playing 
and  the  dance,  which  had  restored  the 
stranger  to  his  indifference.  Of  course 
Rodomant  was  gratified  at  this  suggestion 
of  his  own  sagacity,  for  the  other  had  meant 
then  to  confide  in  turn,  though  yet  he  knew 
not  what !  But  he  thought  only  to  surprise 
the  stranger  into  emotion,  how  to  draw  from 
his  brain  one  tear,  even  though  it  should  dry 
before  it  fell ;  he  longed  to  melt  for  one 
instant  his  unrelenting  mood.  So  he  obeyed 
the  lady's  request ;  otherwise,  he  would  have 
bluntly  refused  it. 

So  he  stepped  within  the  rosy  silken 
flutes,  not  looking  back,  for  he  would  have 
disdained  to  show  his  desire,  but  desiring, 
and  expecting  the  stranger  would  follow  him, 
which  was  not  the  case.  Behind  the  curtain 
was  a  sort  of  impromptu  green-room  ;  many 
of  the  initiated  into  whatever  mystery  had 


RUMOR. 


87 


last,  been  advertised  and  explained  in  Pari- 
siniu  were  already  there,  clustered  like  drones 
round  the  author  of  the  last  hour's  "  sensa- 
tion." Rodomant  glowered  upon  them  all 
but  the  latter,  and  would  have  chiefly 
scowled  in  nis  direction,  but  for  his  aspect. 
He,  the  player  of  the  spider-dance,  lay  on  a 
couc^h  in  a  half-dislocated  heap,  exhausted, 
nerve-wrung.  One  lately  dragged  from  the 
rack  could  scarcely  more  wildly  writhe  ;  not 
a  gloam  of  spirit  redeemed  the  morbidity  of 
the  countenance ;  it  was  like  a  skeleton 
clothed  on  with  shadow  —  that  frame  worn 
down  with  the  constant  and  grateless  effort 
to  maintain  the  charlatanic  efficacy,  the 
white  magic  of  those  wasted  fingers.  Rodo- 
mant had  not  been  far  wrong  when  he  likened 
him  to  an  ape  highly  cultured  —  still  an  ape 
in  extremity  might  excite  even  tears  of  pity  ; 
but  not  in  Rodomant,  whose  great  fault  was 
that  he  could  not  compromise,  even  Avhen  a 
concession  was  due  on  charitable  grounds. 

He  found,  as  he  had  expected,  that  the 
instrument  was  not  tone-worthy,  as  he  would 
have  expressed  it.  But  what  was  that  to 
one  whose  tone-generating  touch  had  calli'd 
up  the  phantoms  of  sound  in  their  sweet- 
ness, as  they  had  breathed  of  old,  from  the 
hollows  of  organ-pipes  in  Mhich  the  winds  ! 
had  died  ?  Here  was  a  task  more  difficult, 
then,  —  easier  for  him  to  accompli'-h,  — 
who  cared  to  accomplish  none  that  were  not 
difficult,  and  for  others  than  himself  impos- 
sible. And  he  pdayed  only  for  one  person  ; 
therefore  his  judgment,  true  to  intuition,  en- 
forced him  to  play  in  the  simplest  adaptive 
style.  He  chose  a  pastoral  movement,  for 
the  inartistic  ear  is  attracted  by  art  sugges- 
tive rather  than  creative  ;  and  beneath  his 
breathing  fingers  the  leaves  danced  lightly, 
soft  gusts  swept  the  i-ustling  grass,  in  the 
midst  of  a  multitudinous  warble  the  passion- 
saddened  nightingale  dropped  tears  of  mel- 
ody, the  low  pathetic  bleat  of  distant  flocks, 
the  small  sharp  cricket  chirp,  the  milkmaid's 
troll,  all  chafed  the  ear  at  once,  and  now  and 
then  the  huntsman's  horn,  the  hounds'  wild, 
wailful  cry,  shivered  through  the  voiceful 
aim,  then  died  as  into  the  distance,  and 
«eemed  to  leave  nature  to  its  joy.  And 
soothing  as  nature  to  the  world-wearied  poet 
was  this,  its  successful  imitation,  to  the 
player  ;  he  had  meant  to  affect  one  other 
only,  but  he  had  played  himself  into  a  mood 
of  rare  content,  and  cai-ed  not  the  least  for 
those  polite  countenances,  the  contempt  of 
whose  owners  he  perceived  as  distinctly  as 
one  sees  through  transpai'ent  glass ;  nor 
would  he  have  cared  if  he  had  heard  with 
his  earthly  ear  their  dismissing  verdict  in 
respect  of  his  playing  —  not  his  distinct  dra- 
matic genius  —  the  verdict  being  rococo, 
older  that  was  than  the  memory  of  any 
present,  a  memory  not  permitted  in  eti- 
quette to  extend  beyond  yesterday  —  a  lit- 
eral yesterday  in  Parisinia. 
Rodomant  returned  to  his  corner.     The 


man  he  had  designed  to  melt  was  gone. 
Not  into  the  crowd,  one  glance  showed  that 
among  ten  thousand,  he  could  not  have  con- 
cealed himself.  Had  Rodomant  then  struck 
the  rock  ?  and  breaking  up  the  fountains  of 
his  heart,  driven  him  for  sacred  shame,  "  to 
his  chamber  to  weep  there  P  "  Or  had  he 
vanished  directly  Rodomant  left  him,  an 
alternative  flattering  to  the  man  as  degrad- 
ing to  the  artist,  since  it  proved  the  interest 
to  have  been  excited  by  the  person  ;  and  in- 
deed this  possibility  reconciled  Rodomant  to 
the  fact  of  his  being  a  stock  more  soulless 
than  the  stones  that  danced  for  Orpheus. 
Stung  by  curiosity  to  an  irritation  which 
made  it  impossible  to  remain  in  that  languid 
atmosphere,  he  felt  that  he  must  question 
someone,  and  unconsciously  hastened  to  the 
likeliest  person,  the  gentleman  who  had  in- 
troduced him  there.  This  gentleman  was 
enraptured  in  a  quiet  way,  to  see  Rodomant 
return  to  his  side,  not  only  because  it  had 
been  inconvenient  to  him  to  come  —  for  the 
Parisinians  are  perfect  in  politeness,  if  they 
know  not  heaven-born  courtesy  —  but  be- 
cause he  had  in  progress  four  romances,  six 
editorial  leaders,  and  three  ])lays,  for  more 
copy  of  all  which  about  a  dozen  printers' 
imps  were  to  call  at  noon  on  the  morrow. 

They  passed  silently  down  broad  stairs 
into  the  street ;  the  broad,  beauteous  street, 
now  covered  with  its  pitying  veil  of  moon- 
light, for  the  illuminations,  waxing  sick 
when  Rodomant  left  the  theatre,  had  died 
out  since,  leaving  no  trace  of  their  glory  but 
a  scent  of  rancid  oil-smoke.  Still  Rodo- 
mant rejected  the  cigar  offered  by  his  com- 
panion, who  seemed  as  though  the  end  of 
his  existence  were  answered,  not  in  covering 
as  many  sheets  of  paper,  but  in  consuming 
as  many  cigars  as  possible  in  the  shortest 
possible  time.  Not  that  Rodomant  could 
not  have  smoked,  but  he  was  a  true  epicure, 
and  preferred  the  bouquet  of  choice  tobacco 
to  its  flavor  ;  besides,  he  was  noM-  preoccu- 
pied, and  dreaded  lest  there  should  not  be 
time  for  a  full  gratification  of  his  curiosity. 

"  What  is  the  name  of  the  man  who  did 
not  make  a  fool  of  himself?"  he  inquired, 
when  his  companion  had  puffed  a  few  times. 

"  Sir,"  replied  the  other,  removing  his 
cigar  as  though  he  cared  not  for  it,  and  in 
that  inimitably  polite  tone  with  which  a  Par. 
isinian  offers  or  responds  to  an  insult :  "  sir, 
there  are  in  Parisinia  no  fools." 

Then  Rodomant  sneered  at  the  moon,  for 
looking  down  on  that  Babel  of  bright  con- 
ceits. "  Oh,"  he  said,  "  I  mean  the  man  who 
did  not  dance,  the  man  about  my  make,  in 
the  corner  against  the  red  flap." 

"  The  little  man  who  could  not  dance  — 
oh  yes,  I  can  tell  you."  There  was  a  deli- 
cate slight  of  Rodomant's  own  personality 
in  this  description,  for  Rodomant  had  spoken 
of  the  man  as  his  own  make,  and  Rodomant 
had  not  danced  ;  actually,  though  not  be- 
cause he  could  not,  it  was  a  fact  that  he  had 


88 


HUMOR. 


nevar  tried.  And  thin-skinned  as  are_  tlie 
sensitive  youth  of  genius,  he  felt  the  slight. 
Before  he  could  recover  himself  or  reply,  the 
literarian  went  on. 

"  In  effect  it  makes  one  laugh  a  little. 
He  whom  you  denoted  as  the  only  wise 
man,  Mas  the  only  fool  present.  Just  now 
they  hand  him  about  for  being  a  fool  who 
has"  done  a  clever  thing.  Nothing  can  equal 
the  stupidity  of  that  small  personage  except 
his  insignificance  —  shown  in  this :  that 
though  he  got  out  of  prison  only  a  week  ago, 
imprisonment  too  for  a  state  offence,  really 
such  as  a  child  might  perpetrate  in  kicking 
the  crown  on  its  cushion  in  the  closet,  the 
king  has  pardoned  him  the  escapade,  and 
engaged  to  let  him  go  free,  on  condition 
that  he  stays  out  of  Parisinia." 

"  But  he  is  in  Parisinia  noio,"  said  Rodo- 
mant. 

"The  king  does  not  know  that,  and  it 
is  one  among  many  things  he  does  not 
know." 

"  How  then  ?  you  are  honorable  although 
you  are  his  enemy ;  you  keep  his  secret  for 
him  ?  " 

"  Do  you  suppose,"  said  the  stranger  in  a 
sibilant  whisper,  after  staring  all  round  him 
for  several  minutes  —  "  do  you  suppose  that 
because  I  am  his  enemy,  I  am  the  king's 
friend  ?  I  hate  him,  I  detest  them  both,  both 
the  galvanized  skeleton  and  the  skeleton  that 
cannot  obtain  enough  fluid*  to  set  him  going. 
I  hate  all  skeletons  of  royalty.  It  is  delicious 
to  hate  —  to  love  palls  after  it !  " 

Rodomant  shuddered ;  he  felt  rather  as 
though  he  were  side  by  side  with  a  locomo- 
tive anatomy  ;  a  chill  as  deadly  as  if  it  wan- 
dered from  an  empty  vault  to  supply  its 
wandering  tenant  with  proper  nutriment, 
seemed  to  glaze  the  warm  fast  current  of  the 
artist's  noble  heart.  He  did  not  understand 
the  morbid  mystery,  and  shrank  from  trying 
to  solve  it ;  it  was  something  veiy  different 
that  he  desired  to  know. 

"  But  what  then  is  this  man's  name  ?  " 
"  He  goes  by  all  kinds  of  titles  for  con- 
venience, but  only  acknowledges  to  one. 
He  calls  himself  '  Porphyro,  —  in  sublime 
eimplicity  repudiates  a  baptismal  name.  He 
says  he  is  a  captain,  —  it  must  be  of  some 
mytliical  militia,  — for  he  belongs  to  no  reg- 
iment of  Iris  ;  yet  has  always  lived  in  Par- 
isinia. He  confesses  neither  to  father, 
mother,  nor  relations,  and  I  fancy  has  suc- 
ceeded in  convincing  himself  that  he  is  the 
offspring  of  Theogony.  He  is  dull  as  an 
English  day,  dry  as  a  German  dictionary,  a 
mummy  resuscitated,  possessed  neither  of 
mercury  nor  blood.  His  talk  is  all  epigram, 
trite  as  Time  ;  and  effete  as  are  his  opinions, 
he  absolutely  has  not  prudence  enough  to 
conceal  them.  He  exhibits  to  every  person 
who  is  idiot  enough  to  notice  him,  his  wind- 
eggs  on  which  he  has  brooded  till  they  are 
addled,  and  in  every  one's  eyes  will  blow  his 
big   bubbles,  that   burst   the   moment   they 


have  air.  In  fact,  he  is  star-sirucJc,  a  higher 
degree  of  madness  than  the  mania  of  simple 
moonshine,  but  quite  as  harmless." 

"  What  was  his  ofience  ?  "  asked  Rodo- 
mant, quietly,  M'ho  had  borne  the  one-sided 
tirade  thus  far  with  patience,  for  fear  its 
point  should,  after  all,  elude  him. 

"  Sir,"  said  the  other,  striking  his  cigar  as  j 
if  it  were  a  color,  yet  holding  it  out  at  arm's-  J 
length  as  though  it  were  the  badge  of  all  the  j 
tribe  of  authors.  "  Sir,  his  offence  is  a  1 
duplicature,  or  rather  two-sided,  after  the  J 
moral  of  the  gold  and  silver  shield  —  you 
recollect  the  fable  ?  " 
"  Well." 

"  Again,  our  good  brother,  the  author  of 
the  '  Shadowless,'  speaks  with  just  contempt 
of  those  who  treat  serious  matters  as  trifles, 
and   trifles   as   serious    matters.     Now,    the 

king " 

"  In  his  name  !  "  exclaimed  a  deep  grum- 
bling voice,  and  from  a  pitch-black  archway 
sprang  an  armed  man,  and  laid  his  sounding 
hand  upon  the  literarian's  shoulder !  Yet 
how  low  had  been  his  voice,  how  hushed  his 
chatter  —  could  any  but  Rodomant  have 
overheard  that  last  word  single-dropping  to 
a  whisper  ?  —  it  would  seem  so,  and  moiy 
than  one  ear,  too,  for  two  other  figures  grew 
out  of  the  darkness  suddenly,  and  pinioned 
the  arms  of  him  whom  the  first  arrested^ 
The  four  marched  quickly,  clattering  along 
the  pavement,  leaving  Rodomant  behind 
them,  alone  in  the  moonlight.  Exceeding 
dissatisfaction  kept  him  calm  for  several 
moments  —  now  should  he  never  know  what 
the  strange  man's  fault  had  been,  for  he  felt 
he  could  never  ask  him,  even  if  he  should 
meet  him  again.  Then-  he  wondered  why 
they  had  taken  the  other  and  left  him ; 
somewhat  pride-stung,  for  he  would  rather 
have  gone  to  prison  than  not  be  noticed. 
But  this  mood  was  born  and  dead  in  a  mo- 
ment only  ;  he  was  too  sagacious  not  to  re- 
turn to  the  conviction  that  freedom  is  better 
than  bondage.  "  What  a  fool  he  must  be," 
was  the  final  sum  of  his  musings,  "  to  have 
walked  so  quietly  along  with  them  ;  I  would 
have  knocked  them  all  down  and  run  away 
Still,  Rodomant  was  sagacious  enough  no. 
to  repeat  the  king's  name,  even  to  his 
thoughts.  The  event  influenced  him  some- 
what, besides,  for  on  returning  to  the  hotel 
where  he  had  in  the  morning  engaged  rooms, 
he  discovered  that  what  he  had  seen  and 
heard  had  given  him  a  disgust  for  luxury 
and  ease,  or  rather  had  rubbed  away  the 
bloom  from  his  idea  of  them.  So  he  dis- 
dained to  sleep  in  his  elegant  bed  with  the 
gilded  columiis,  and  kicking  ofl'  his  shoes, 
lay  on  the  door-mat  till  the  morning ;  when 
he  confounded  his  mother  (who  was  his  in- 
variable companion  and  care)  by  looking 
out,  in  the  tallest  house  of  the  narrowest 
street,  for  the  barest  attic,  fullest  of  draughts 
and  draught-blown  dust.  Thereunto  he  re- 
moved ere  night,  appointing  to  his  mother  a 


RUMOR. 


89 


room  at  hand,  somewhat  more  commodious 
than  his  own,  though  quite  as  devoid  as  that 
of  the  grace  which  invests  outward  Pari- 
sinia,  and  shuns  all  he;'  internal  arrange- 
ments, except  the  saloons,  which  are  r  ever 
complete  unless  filled. 

In  his  attic  Rodomant  also  found  the  jare 
memory  rise  like  an  unbidden  phantom  to 
his  thought,  that  he  was  in  truth  not  yet 
free  ;  the  excitement  of  the  night  before  pass- 
ing like  fumes  of  a  less  spiritual  intoxication 
from  his  brain ;  he  stood  face  to  face  with 
the  hard  fact  of  the  debt  not  yet  paid.  '1  o 
pay  it  became  his  fixed  idea  ;  his  pride  nour- 
ished and  kept  it  living.  Now  it  was  of  no 
use,  as  he  directly  discovered,  to  prorUice  his 
matchless  minstrelsies  of  the  soul  to  tin.  i^ory 
key,  for  no  one  would  just  then  buy  them ; 
no,  nor  his  imitations  of  imitation  —  that 
market  was  monopolized  by  the  pianist,  who 
had  last  bitten  the  Parisinians,  and  Rodo- 
mant's  plain  sense  told  him  it  would  be  as 
impossible  for  him  to  excel  the  other  in  tliat 
craft,  as  to  supplant  the  reigning  ballet 
queen  in  her  own  slippers.  Not  long,  how- 
ever, had  he  to  %oait  that  he  might  work, 
knowing  what  woi'k  was  to  the  purpose  —  in 
Parisinia  they  live  so  fast  that  the  hour  is 
the  moment,  and  with  the  moment  came  the 
.  man.  He  had  not  to  wait,  for  that  morning, 
that  moment  of  the  hour  was  he  in  request. 
And  if  a  fiJctory-child  were  to  be  paid  a 
month's  wages  for  a  single  day's  work,  it 
would  not  be  more  simply  astonished  than 
was  Rodomant,  when  the  receipts  poured  in 
upon  him ;  positively  to  be  paid  for  what, 
instead  of  hard  work,  was  one  whelming  su- 
perfluity of  intense  delight,  for  he  had  but  to 
conduct,  night  after  night,  his  virgin  opera, 
making  whatever  strictures  he  liked  upon 
the  singers'  voices,  exalting  the  orchestral 
perfectibility  to  an  empyrean  in  which  the 
critic  could  not  breathe,  so  long  as  he  con- 
sented to  be  paid  for  himself  conducting  it ; 
and  so,  eccentrician  as  he  was,  attract  full 
houses  as  an  additional  novelty  amidst  the 
surfeit  of  yet  unexhausted  horror.  So,  by 
day,  it  happened  that  Rodomant  rested  and 
meditated,  as  one  might  do  in  the  express 
train  at  full  speed,  for  such  seemed  his  sud- 
denly eventful  and  teeming  life  to  be.  And 
now  he  suddenly  became,  not  only  a  mind, 
but  a  person,  constantly  in  request,  a  condi- 
tion as  fiattering  to  the  proud  who  yet  know 
not  the  world,  as  to  the  vain  who  know  the 
world.  To  do  Parisinia  justice,  her  leaders 
would  quite  as  soon  visit  her  heroes  and 
idols  in  garrets  or  cellars,  as  in  golden  sa- 
loons, only  the  inhabitant  must  be  either 
heroic  or  adorable,  the  Jirst  of  the  class  he 
represents,  whether  artist  in  sugar,  or  ideal- 
ist of  crime.  Every  morning  brought  cards 
and  notes  to  Rodomant,  and  would  have 
brought  visitors,  but  these  were  as  incessantly 
refused  admittance  ;  this  again  put  down  to 
the  charge  of  intentional  originalisra,  whereas 
they  were  not  admitted  simply  because  the 
12 


inhabitant  was  n(»w  too  actually  ii  depend- 
ent to  bear  to  sacrifice  his  independence,  for 
he  had  no  notion  of  making  himself  a  diffi- 
cult and  therefore  more  desirable  acquaint- 
ance. The  little  man  who  could  not  dance, 
the  man  with  the  imperial-sounding  name, 
and  doom  of  insignificance,  had  not  been 
incorrect  even  had  he  said  as  well  as  thought, 
tl^at  a  man  musician  could  be  a  man  in  no 
popular  and  conventional  sense.  For  Rodo- 
mant up  there,  knew  nothing  of  that  which 
the  raggedest  street-sweeper,  the  starveling 
of  an  operative  with  less  time  than  he  for 
self-emancipation  from  the  bondage  of  igno- 
rance, knew  perfectly,  while  their  steady  eyes 
watched  faithfully,  if  very  wearily,  hoping 
for  respite  at  the  end,  or  rather  at  the  begin- 
ning of  the  new.  Nothing  knew  Rodomant 
—  the  luxurious  art-child,  cradled  on  her 
bosom  softer  for  her  own  than  Nature's  even, 
if  not  so  broad  as  hers,  and  soothed  by  her 
divine  lullabies  —  of  the  changes,  rapid  as 
though  a  prism  flashed  on  her  instead  of  the 
blue  constant  Heaven,  which  were  passing 
over  Iris  and  its  diamond  of  cities.  Nothing 
knew  he,  seated  in  his  cave  high  upon  Olym- 
pus, above  the  cloud  and  storm,  below  the 
sun  and  starbeam  only,  of  that  awful  periodic 
passion,  which  more  dread  than  epidemy, 
more  wild  than  war,  more  secret  than  earth- 
quake, though  as  sure,  was  returning  from 
its  last  rest,  to  burst  upon  devoted  Parisinia, 
seven  times  already  purified  by  sharper  pangs 
than  of  fire,  or  of  pain,  or  of  the  sword,  or 
nature-spasm,  but  not  yet  pure. 

But  if  any  thing  can  be  said  to  be  peculiar 
to  Parisinia,  where  every  thing  is  unlike  all 
else  in  other  cities,  it  is  —  not  the  moral  vol- 
cano over  which  her  genius  broods  —  but  the 
indifterence  with  which  her  children  regard 
the  monumental  evidences  of  past  eruptions, 
and  prophesy  others  to  succeed.  Dehcately 
as  fairies  in  their  fairydom,  indestructible 
because  immaterial,  they  dance  upon  the  thin 
lava  crust,  green  with  last  spring's  grass, 
purple  with  last  spring's  violets.  Nay,  on 
that  grave  of  graves  they  plant  their  vine- 
yards and  their  corn,  they  rear  their  marts 
of  crystal,  besprent  with  their  toy-miracles, 
their  love-tokens  of  young  invention,  and  the 
Iris-orbed  bubbles  of  the  gentle  queen  Ca- 
price. Now  Rodomant,  though  he  refused 
to  make  acquaintance  among  Parisinians  in 
his  single  room,  disdained  not  to  acquaint 
himself  with  Parisinia  on  her  own  broad 
ground,  he  being  besides  in  too  healthy  a 
physical  state  to  endure  existence  without 
exercise  and  air.  It  may  seem  strange  that 
he,  an  artist,  should  not  have  found  his  way 
into  the  matchless  picture-house,  mausoleum 
of  dead,  and  princely  rfception-rooms  of  liv- 
ing painters,  which  really  seems  the  only  en- 
during crown  of  Parisinian  pride ;  but  Rod- 
omant feared  —  his  passion  for  painting 
was  nearest  to  his  love  for  music,  as  is  often 
the  case,  and  he  dared  not  gratify  the  former 
at  the  expense  of  the  latter.     He  confined 


90 


RUMOR. 


his  scrutiny  to  the  shops,  *nd  there  enjoj'ed 
the  counterfeit  images  of  many  an  art-gem, 
whose  original  would  have  enslaved  his  soul. 
For  say,  oh  youngest  and  freshest  of  enthu- 
siasts! perusing  the  counterfeit  of  the  Palace 
of  Art  in  its  shrine  "  all  windows,"  —  is  the 
Court  Alhambra,  Alhambra  to  thy  soul  ?  is 
Pompeii  excavated  for  thee  there  ?  does 
Rome  breathe  ?  dost  thou  swoon  joy-stricken, 
amidst  the  marble  divinities  which  now  real, 
we  ripened  from  the  ghosts  of  fable  that 
haunted  thy  classic  boyhood  ?  and  even 
amidst  the  brilliant  development  of  plant 
and  flower  in  its  garden,  that  Paradise  re- 
gained, dost  thou  shudder  beneath  the  stu- 
pendous substances  which  assume  to  be  shad- 
ows of  Geology's  gigantic  world,  that  Past 
behind  the  Past  ? 

Therefore  is  Rodomant  safe,  and  for  the 
same  reason,  is  safe  from  the  women  of  Par- 
isinia,  as  a  poet,  even  a  modern  poet,  if  a 
true  poet,  is  safe  from  the  whole  revelation 
of  the  real  Vanity  Fair,  last  named  so  among 
men,  because  first  deemed  so  among  angels. 
It  is  easy  to  bring  knowledge  to  men's  doors, 
but  they  must  seek  for  wisdom,  and  go  out  of 
their  houses  to  find  it. 

Rodomant  sneered  most  impatiently  at 
such  shops  as  he  would  have  termed  "  bazaars 
for  women,"  that  is,  the  very  toy-miracles 
and  love-tokens  of  invention,  and  bright- 
blown  bubbles  of  caprice  ;  but  he  ever  rested 
before  the  print-shops.  There  are  no  such 
print-shops  in  the  whole  world.  There  was 
one,  his  favorite,  because  as  he  beheved 
the  cause,  replenished  every  day,  but  really, 
on  account  of  the  delicious  taste  which 
spread  it ;  for  taste  is  as  inefl'able  a  luxury  to 
the  mind,  as  comfort  to  the  body.  The  com- 
partments of  this  window  were  modelled 
like  the  arches  of  the  great  cathedral  of 
Parisinia ;  in  each  niche  stood  the  model  of 
its  enshrined  saint,  and  one  or  two  of  the 
finest  proof-engravings  published  in  every 
city  of  the  earth,  lay  beneath  the  shadow  of 
that  fairy  calendar,  changed  every  day. 
Rodomant  had  been  bred  in  superstitious 
horror  of  the  Catholic  religion,  and  since  his 
mature  manhood  had  learned  to  look  upon 
its  results  too  lightly  ;  the  reaction  of  all 
superstitions  in  their  excess.  Those  mind- 
wanderings  of  macerated  monks,  light-headed 
from  fasting  to  starvation's  edge  ;  those  soft 
ravings  of  cloister-caged  virgins,  dream- 
bound  for  lack  cf  dear  reality:  the  yearnings 
so  natural,  on  the  one  hand,  for  wifehood 
forbidden  and  maternity  repressed,  on  the 
other  for  the  material  bride  and  material 
heaven  of  home ;  whose  ideal  ever  is  to  be 
crushed  down  into  aching  sense  like  the 
living  burled  alive ;  all  these  unwritten 
tragedies  were  unread  by  Rodomant ;  how 
far  less  comprehended  or  even  guessed  at  in 
their  divine  perfection,  —  which  only  Jeho- 
vah knows  how  to  reward,  —  the  exalta- 
tions, the  humiliations,  above  all  the  char- 
ities of  these  living  dead,  who  shall  soonest 


among   the  living   obtain    the   life    flirough      ■ 
death.  1 

In  this  shop-window,  all  were  Catholic  por- 
traits, whether  architectural  or  personal.  One 
morning  as  Rodomant  approached,  he  noted 
in  a  glance,  that  the  whole  frontage  of  view 
was  occupied  by  a  single  picture,  a  portrait 
too,  an  immense  white  margin  framing  the 
fi^ce  and  figure  of  a  charitable  sister  in  her 
weeds  of  sacred  office.  This  was  sufficient 
for  Rodomant,  who  would  have  turned  to  go 
without  looking.  As  easily  might  the  poet 
belated  at  the  evening,  —  his  own  sweet  time, 
determine  that  he  would  not  look  upon  the 
evening-star,  full  risen  in  the  dusk  above 
him.  He  may  look  round,  sweep  with  his 
adoring  eye  the  whole  twilight,  whitened 
with  the  brightening  stars  like  dew,  as  soft 
and  tremulous  ;  or  the  darkling  earth  where 
his  feet  crush  the  real  dew  bedropt  unseen ; 
but  for  that  one  steadfast  star,  the  star  that 
shone  before  all  others,  and  still  shines 
brightest,  if  far  softer  than  they  all,  he  must 
turn  to  it,  if  only  to  see  that  still  it  shines 
there,  safe  in  Heaven.  So  gazed  Rodomant 
upon  the  passionate  yet  saint-like  visage  of 
the  unknown  portrait.  For  that  it  was  a 
likeness  he  never  doubted  ;  no  artist  could 
create  the  ideal  of  such  a  countenance,  only 
the  Creator  who  created  all.  It  was  a  new 
face,  no  marvel  it  was  displayed  to  Pari.siuian 
eyes;  but  whether  beautiful  or' not,  Rodo- 
mant, as  a  single  observer,  did  not  know,  he 
was  so  new  in  the  sense  of  its  impression,  to 
all  beauty.  But  it  held  him  breathless,"^ike 
a  mighty  musical  idea ;  a  mystery  which  he 
yet  should  reveal  unto  himself,  a  silent  proph- 
ecy. And  strange  to  say,  after  the  first 
long  thirsting  gaze  was  satisfied,  he  felt 
excited  to  composition,  went  home,  seeing 
nothing  round  him,  and  wrote  in  his  best 
style,  the  unsalable.  Next  day,  very  early, 
he  naturally  and  impulsively  went  to  the 
same  place  ;  there  were  still  the  small  shrined 
figures,  the  crosses  garlanded  with  passion- 
flowers, the  bloomless  if  undying  grave- 
wreaths,  but  no  nun  —  in  her  place  some 
novel  delineation  of  antique  martyrdom.  Rod- 
omant turned  away  with  disgust  too  deep 
for  anger.  Wandering  from  wiiidow  still 
to  window,  he  started  again,  then  rested  at 
another  print-shop.  Here  were  crowned 
heads  and  mitred  foreheads;  all  the  peat, 
the  fair,  the  famous,  or  the  vicious  —  in  the 
midst  the  nun.  A  nun  no  longer,  which  fact 
for  an  instant  staggered  Rodomant,  as  though 
an  instance  of  human  inconstancy.  For 
he  called  her  a  nun,  comprehending  not  the 
distinction  between  the  costume  of  such  a 
one,  and  a  sister  of  another  order.  Soon 
he  forgot  to  censure,  to  Monder,  even  to 
think  ;  the  measure  of  sensation  filled  up  to 
the  brim  by  that  same  first  impression,  rather 
than  contemplation  —  he  had  received  the 
day  before.  This  was  a  tinted  picture,  and 
now  she  was  dressed  as  a  beautiful  refined 
woman  da-esses  before  the  world,  with  delicate 


RUMOR. 


91 


lace,    and  i)ale    golden  water-lilies  in   her 

shaded  golden  hair.  Still,  for  that  skin  so 
pale  yet  brilliant,  for  those  star-eyes  filled 
with  light  that  blinded  their  own  hue,  for 
those  lips  that  seemed  ready  to  quiver  into 
a  smile,  jet  refrained  as  from  too  full  human 
pity  of  all  the  millions  who  must  weep  on 
earth  ;  for  all  these  color  suffice  not,  nor  art ; 
it  was  impossible  not  to  believe  that  the 
original  as  far  surpassed  the  portraiture,  as 
the  sun  hi?  niost  Earning  painted  image. 
But  about  this,  or  the  points  on  which  a 
woman-fancier  dvells,  or  a  poet  moons, 
Rodomant  knew  nothing,  and  knew  not  that 
he  felt.  As  far  as  external  impression  went, 
he  only  remarked,  so  as  to  admire  jealously, 
that  this  Avoman's  forehead  was  finer  as  well 
as  fairer  than  his  own  ;  for  the  internal  im- 
pression, so  mastering  yet  so  calm,  it  again 
filled  him  with  the  imagery  of  music,  evolved 
tones  in  his  brain  to  which  he  listened  — 
as  he  looked  at  her,  and  swept  by  an  irresist- 
ible yearning  to  create,  as  the  day  before, 
he  wandered  home,  that  is  going  not  at  all 
straight,  but  indirectly  thither.  And  would 
have  written,  but  being  out  of  paper,  was 
driven  forth  again  to  buy  some,  and  found 
that  he  was  haunted.  She  was  every  where  ; 
here  again  in  one  window  in  her  sad-colored 
raiment,  the  cloistral  calm  seeming  to  float 
above  a  calm  far  purer  in  her  face,  bent  as 
it  seemed  on  an  eternal  mission  ;  ihere  she 
M'as  on  horseback,  where  Rodomant  hated  to 
see  women,  but  where  at  least  this  woman 
looked  the  most  a  woman,  in  the  divine  con- 
trast of  her  countenance  with  her  position  ; 
and  last,  full  fronting  him,  she  carried  a 
diadem  on  her  brow.  From  this  last  picture 
Rodomant  plucked  himself  away,  very  angry 
to  find  that  she  was,  as  he  would  have  ex- 
pressed it,  a  queen.  After  that  last  look, 
he  would  not  go  near  the  shops  ;  he  was 
seized  with  a  sudden  shame  at  having  looked 
at  all,  and  at  the  same  moment  affected  with 
a  curious  shyness  of  his  kind,  as  though 
his  admiration  of  an  object  exposed  in 
public  were  contraband.  Nor  did  he  dream 
of  possessing  himself  of  one  of  these  many 
copies,  he  felt  too  keenly  their  art-deficiency, 
while  his  natural  pride  and  reticence  forbade 
him  to  ask  any  one  for  the  simplest  informa- 
tion al  )out  the  original.  So  by  a  strong  eff'ort, 
which,  in  one  of  his  unimpaired  volition,  was 
sure  to  be  successful,  he  wiped  the  picture 
from  his  memory,  and  went  to  work  igain. 
This  time  having  a  genuine  purpose,  if  one 
of  little  worth  in  his  own  private  opinion  ; 
for  he  was  called  upon  in  frantic  yet  all 
courteous  terms,  to  prepare  music  and 
dramatic  illustration  for  an  opera,  to  fill  the 
gap  in  case  Alarcos  should  suddenly  or  tran- 
siently cease  to  excite.  Rodomant  ran  his 
eye  through  the  piece,  still  the  tragedy  of 
terror,  the  passion  murder ;  and  as  all 
tragedy  was  precious  to  Rodomant,  and  any 
passion  acceptable,  both  suggestive,  he  con- 
sented.    In  a  week  copies  of  the  score  were 


ready,  for  he  flung  from  his  hand  the  blotted 
scraps,  sure  that  by  a  thousand  imps  at  Art's 
bidding,  all  would  be  made  clear  without  his 
troubling  himself,  as  certainly  he  had  not 
found  in  London. 

Soon  —  a  natural  result  in  the  case  of  a 
mind  and  character  equally  exalted  above 
the  average,  his  steady  enthusiasm  faltered, 
and  his  mood  subservient  to  a  lower  stan- 
dard of  taste  and  feeling,  became  one  of  ex- 
citement merely.  MeanXime  his  ideal  purism 
retreated  from  his  own  perception,  still  there 
in  its  place,  the  innermost  soul  of  being, 
just  as  the  stars  shine  on  above  a  lighted 
theatre,  but  those  within  behold  them  not  ; 
and  it  seemed  as  though  his  destiny  —  no 
divine  one,  if  so  it  doomed  him  —  were  to 
fix  him  in  Parisinia  so  that  he  could  not 
move.  For  there  came  a  white  day  —  a 
diamond  among  the  jewels  of  circumstance, 
as  he  momentarily  and  yet  innocently  con- 
sidered it ;  he  was  ordered  to  conduct  Alar- 
cos in  the  private  theatre  of  the  king  within 
palatial  premises.  Loyalty  would  seem  to 
be  a  passion  innate  in  all  fine  natures  ;  per- 
chance a  faint  reflex  of  that  divine  faculty  of 
worship  which  explains  while  it  assists  to 
keep  the  first  commandment ;  and  though 
Rodomant  was  in  half-descent  from  the  race 
ruled  specially  by  Heaven's  King,  he  yet  re- 
tained the  simple  susceptibility  of  the  Ger- 
mans to  external  impresidons  ;  to  him  a  king 
was  not  a  man  like  otljer  men,  he  was  the 
anointed  of  the  Most  High  ;  and  to  his  shame 
be  it  spoken,  for  this  very  reason  he  was 
most  independent  in  his  deportment  on  this 
occasion  ;  he  concealed  his  gratification,  and 
obeyed  the  command  as  a  favor  which  he 
could  have  refused  had  he  chosen.  The  au- 
dience consisted  of  the  sovereign,  his  wife 
and  children,  and  the  court,  and  looked  like 
a  group  ready  for  an  historic  painter.  Noth- 
ing so  perfect  was  ever  so  unsatisfactory ; 
nothing  so  elaborate  ever  so  monotonous  ; 
nothing  so  brilliant  ever  so  dull.  Still  Rod- 
omant enjoyed  the  event  as  a  child  enjoys 
its  birthday  regalities  and  revels,  and  it  was 
to  be  his  last  enjoyment  in  Parisinia. 

On  his  way  home,  for  he  refused  to  be 
escr  „ed  in  a  royal  carriage,  and  it  went 
em,jcy  to  his  house  that  still  the  honor  might 
descend  upon  him,  he  stepped  into  a  golden 
retreat  for  a  cup  of  cofiee,  delicious  as  the 
nectar  of  the  gods.  Here,  to  his  surprise, 
he  met  the  literarian,  Avhom  he  had  never 
seen  since  the  night  of  his  first  intro- 
duction, for  Rodomant,  ajsorbed  in  his 
conductorship,  never  looked  to  see  who 
was  present  at  the  public  performances  of 
his  works. 

"  I  will  walk  home  with  you,"  remarked 
the  literarian,  "  I  have  something  to  say." 

And  Rodomant  by  this  time  knew  enough 
of  Parisinia  not  to  wonder  why  he  did  not 
explain  himself  then  and  there. 

They  went  forth.  "  We  shall  not  be 
watched  now,"  said  Rodomant's  companion, 


92 


RUMOR. 


•'  they   know  too   well   that    you    have   no 
opinions." 

"  No  opinions  !  "  growled  Rodomant. 

"  No  political  opinions,  and  they  are  the 
only  ones  that  are  alive  in  Parisinia,  alive 
to  be  starved,  or  drowned,  or  gagged." 

"  But  I  have  political  opinions,"  said  Rod- 
omant, heedless  of  the  ineffable  experience 
that  sneered  upon  him  at  hand,  "I  have 
political  opinions,  I  am  very  loyal,  I  always 
stick  to  the  king,  wherever  I  find  myself.  I 
am  quite  aware  that  it  is  dangerous  in  Pai'i- 
^siioia,  not  to  honor  the  king." 

"  Fool,"  hissed  the  literarian,  or  rather 
hissed  the  first  letter  of  that  name  in  Pari- 
sinian  which  in  Hebrew,  a  prince  of  the  house 
of  David  forbade  brother  to  use  to  brother. 
But  most  likely  Rodomant  and  this  man 
were  not  brothers,  after  all. 

"  Well,"  said  the  latter,  coolly  as  frozen 
courtesy  drops  ever  on  the  hidden  warmth 
of  sim])le  charity.  "  Do  you  wish  to  hear 
my  message  for  you  ?  " 

"  That  depends  on  who  sent  it,"  observed 
Rodomant,  adding  with  the  self-composure 
of  genius,  for  which  the  tact  of  the  man  of 
ten  talents  is  no  match,  "  I  don't  see  how 
you  can  have  a  message  from  any  one  to  me ; 
i  thought  you  were  taken  to  prison." 

"  My  dear,  a  new-laid  egg  is  not  more 
creamed  with  innocence  than  you,  nor  con- 
ceals its  innocence  within  its  shell  unfrac- 
tured,  as  do  you.  True,  I  Avent  to  prison  —  j 
all  fashionable  persons  so  graduate  here. 
Yes,  I  went  to  prison,  slept  very  comforta- 
bly, and  was  let  out  next  morning,  having 
been  by  a  slight  mistake  taken  for  somebody 
else." 

"  Taken  for  whom  ?  " 

"  They  saw  me  walking  with  you,  and  in 
the  dark  took  me  for  a  man  you  had  been 
seen  talking  to  in  the  evening." 

"  A  man !  have  they  put  him  in  prison 
too  ?  "  said  Rodomant,  rather  eagerly. 

"  Xo,  they  could  not  find  him." 

"  Xo  more  can  I,"  said  Rodomant,  in  an 
anxious  manner,  which  let  him  down  to  the 
lowest  step  of  the  ladder  of  the  other's  vari- 
ous standards.  "  I  have  looked  for  him  con- 
stantly, sometimes  have  thought  that  he 
might  have  come  to  see  me,  or  asked  per- 
mission. But  perhaps,  being  no  artist,  he 
did  not  dare." 

"  He  cares  now,  it  seems,  enough  to  send 
for  you,  if  not  p'^-vgh  to  come  after  you 
himself.     1  saw  hmi  only  this  morning." 

"  Is  he  here  ?  and  how  do  you  know,  if  no 
one  else  knows  ?     Why  should  he  tell  you  ?  " 

"  Why  should  he  not  i  " 

"  Because  you  might  repeat,  as  you  cer- 
tainly seemed  to  detest  him." 

"  Xot  so ;  being  sworn  adversaries  in 
opinion,  we  are  for  each  other  the  safest 
friends." 

Rodomant  did  not  understand  this,  and 
scorned  to  inquire,  for  he  cared  not  in  truth 
to  know. 


"  I  was  happening,"  remarked  the  othei 
"  to  speak  of  your  last  work,  and  Porphyro 
asked  whether  it  was  like  the  first  ?  I  re- 
plied that  it  resembled  such  fragments  as 
you  might  have  disdainfully  discarded  after 
pruning  the  first ;  warmed  up." 

"  A  lie,"  said  Rodomant. 

"  The  greatest  compliment,"  said  the  other; 
"  I  thought  you  had  cooked  it  so  on  pur- 
pose. Parisinia,  like  the  old  clothesmen  m 
the  wilderness,  has  long  loathed  light  food  ; 
she  has  a  present  appetite  for  fiesh-meat, 
cooked  not  after  the  Jewish  law  ;  by  and  by 
she  will  loathe  cooked  meat,  and  tear  raw 
quails  to  pieces  with  her  teeth.  You  have 
merely  studied  the  taste  of  the  times." 

"  Disgusting  nonsense,  worthy  of  a  mad- 
man with  a  nightmare !  I  am  thankful,  at 
least,  to  be  no  loriter ;  there  are  no  eternal 
laws  for  language,  as  for  music." 

Rodomant  restrained  himself  at  this  point 
—  not  really  reverencing  his  tormentor,  a^d 
fearing  to  lose  the  information  it  seemed  he 
alone  could  give  him. 

"  So  he  sent  me  a  message — give  it  me." 

"  I  happened,  as  I  said,  to  mention  you, 
and  he  clapped  his  hands  once,  saying  with 
his  eternal  triteness,  '  The  slave  of  the 
Ring.' " 

Xow.  nothing  would  have  made  it  endura- 
ble to  Rodomant  to  be  called  even  sport- 
ively, a  slave,  saving  only  the  implication 
that  he  was  the  genius  of  boundless  means. 
And  Rodomant  had  read  Aladdin  over  and 
over,  since  childhood,  and  more  shame  for 
an  artist,  had  often  wished  himself  in  Alad- 
din's place. 

"  What  does  he  mean  I  am  to  do  for 
him  ?  " 

"Scarcely  likely  he  would  tell  me.  He 
wants  to  see  you  ;  asks  you  to  go  to  him." 

"  Where  is  he  —  his  address  ?  " 

"  Which'  I  cannot  speak  nor  write  as  his 
address.  Go  simply  to  the  little  glove-house, 
where  they  take  casts  of  your  hand.  Go  to 
the  first  man  on  the  left  side,  and  extend 
your  hand ;  ask  notliing,  except  three  dozen 
pairs ;  what  color  you  choose,  you  will  have 
them  2;iven  you  as  a  present." 

"  What  glove-house  ?  "  asked  Rodomant, 
who,  as  we  know,  only  knew  by  heart  the 
picture-shops.  His  companion  in  indirect 
language  indicated  which 

So  Rodomant  went  there,  instantly ;  he 
could  bear  suspense  (on  small  occasions)  lit- 
tle better  than  a  child.  The  glove-house 
was  full  of  people,  who  were  passing  back- 
wards and  forwards  from  a  glass-door  be- 
yond, communicating  with  the  chamber  of 
the  modellist.  The  person  to  whom  Rodo- 
mant, speechlessly,  extended  his  delicate 
member,  bowed  low,  and  preceded  him  as 
though  tlu-ough  the  glass-door  like  the 
others  ;  —  a  small  square  corridor  led  inside 
by  four  doors,  four  ways  at  once,  dark  except 
for  the  semi-gleam  through  the  silk-shaded 
glass-door.     Rodomant's  conductor  opened 


RUMOR. 


93 


the  door  next  that  in  the  corridor,  through 
which  tlie  others  entered ;  and  having  let 
him  in  by  holding  it  just  wide  enough  for 
him  to  pass,  dejKirted  without  sign  or  word 
of  introduction.  He  found  himself  in  a  room 
of  tolerable  size,  furnished  like  a  hundred 
small  saloons  in  Parisinia,  with  large  win- 
dows looking  full  to  the  widest  street ;  and 
the  king's  central  city  palace,  glaring  paie 
upon  it  from  not  afar,  but  the  nearest  ap- 
proachable point  permitted  to  inferior  abodes. 
There  was  a  man  sitting  in  one  of  these 
windows  smoking,  and  destroying  time  by 
the  perusal  of  pictorial  newspapers.  Not 
Porphyro,  Rodomant  felt  without  looking. 
In  fact,  it  w<is  Porphyro's  servant,  who 
abroad  personified  the  master  of  the  floor, 
and  who  promptly  ushered  Rodomant,  still 
without  a  word,  into  an  inner  cabinet,  or 
rather  closet,  in  which  sat  Porphyro,  Avho 
pei'sonified  his  own  servant  abroad,  and 
sometimes  even  at  home.  Close  shaved 
now,  with  all  but  the  shadow  of  hair  swept 
from  the  mouth  and  chin,  and  with  the  fore- 
head something  lowered,  and  form  of  the 
head  disputed  by  an  exquisitely  indefectible 
wig ;  yet  Rodo'mant  knew  him  instantly, 
would  have  felt,  if  he  had  entered  with  his 
eyes  shut,  that  absorbingly  powerful  pres- 
ence. Without  knowing  why,  Rodomant 
eagerly  examined  the  room ;  every  article  in 
it  was  "suddenly  perfumed  with  interest  for 
him.  He  beheld  simply  a  small  iron  bed- 
stead, very  rusty  ;  a  table  and  two  chairs,  a 
small  high  window,  aflbrding  a  peep  of  blue 
sky.  On  the  table,  at  one  end,  for  it  was  a 
long  one,  were  an  inkstand  with  pens,  the 
usual  implements  of  a  draughtsman,  and  a 
color-box  with  brushes,  but  no  easel.  The 
other  end  of  the  table  was  occupied  with  a 
mysterious  sheet  of  the  thickest  cardboard, 
covered  with  what  looked  like  either  a  large 
microscopic  picture,  or  a  tinted  map  lettered 
infinitesimally.  It  startled  Rodomant  out 
of  his  slight  natural  propriety,  and  without 
greeting,  he  commenced,  saying  solemnly,  — 

"  Is  that  a  horoscope  ?  Are  you  then  a 
fate-caster  ?  " 

The  oth(n-  smiled  the  smile  peculiar  to  his 
countenance,  a  dim  quaint  smile,  as  of  one 
who  had  secrets  with  his  own  inner  man. 

"  A  little  of  a  fore-taster,  perhaps." 

Then  he  took  from  his  pocket  a  strong 
magnifying  glass,  and  put  it  gently  into  Rod- 
omant's  hand.  Rodomant  grasped  it,  and 
thi-ough  it  gazed  long  and  eagerly.  And 
from  that  hieroglyphic  mist  there  started, 
sudden  and  distinct  as  a  morn  without  a 
cloud,  a  brilliant  bird's-eye  view  of  a  superb 
and  stupendous  city,  a  dream  of  imaginative 
architecture,  almost  in  itself  a  poem.  Each 
house  of  each  street,  each  lamp  and  foun- 
tain, each  line  of  road  and  pavement, 
marked  as  vividly  as  the  glorious  domes,  the 
pointing  pillars,  grand  gates  and  arches, 
proud  palaces  in  enclosures  of  solemn  leaf- 
age, the  bridges  tracer"  'ike  webs  of  shadow, 


[the  stately  terraces  and  dim  cathedrals. 
!  Green  groves  and  avenues,  and  vivid  gar- 
!  dens,  interlaced  and  divided  the  city  within 
the  walls,  and  without  masses  of  delicate 
shrubbery,  as  perfectly  defined,  were  studded 
with  fair  villas  of  every  varied  form,  melting 
gradually  and  peacefully  as  it  seemed,  to  a 
bright  champaign  embroidered  with  fence 
and  hedgerow.  Rodomant  struck  his  fore- 
head with  one  hand,  in  the  other  retaining 
the  glass.  It  seemed  a  sort  of  visionary 
pageant  unrolled  to  him,  partly  memorial, 
in  part  pro])hetic.  He  knew  he  had  seen 
something  like  it,  but  Mhen  and  where  ? 
What  planet  boasted  that  star  of  cities,  for 
strength  and  lustre  that  must  surpass  new 
London  and  old  Thebes  ?  For  Rodomant 
had  the  mathematical  gift  of  all  the  highest 
harmonists,  and  his  brain  could  magnify  and 
actualize  the  elfin-sized  images  under  his  eye 
to  their  just  and  proper  proportion  in  the 
real.  ^ 

"  You  know  it  ?  "  asked  Porphyro,  in  his 
intentional,  if  hesitative  accents.  Rodomant 
shook  his  head,  flung  down  the  glass,  and  as 
one  momentarily  dazzled,  passed  a  hand 
before  his  eyes.  "  Oh,  perhaps  not  pos- 
sible," said  Porphyro,  "  for  you  shut  your- 
self up,  I  hear.  Quite  right,  if  one  would 
study  —  it  is  the  only  way  to  put  one's  self  in 
prison,  unless  one's  fellow-mortals  do  it  for 
one.  In  prison  I  learned  to  draw,  to  color, 
to  design,  and  to  anticipate  ;  anticipation  is 
the  coloring  of  design." 

"  Not  hope  ?  "  asked  Rodomant,  child- 
ishly and  something  wistfully  ;  he,  the  great 
arti;<t,  was  as  an  infant  beside  that  inartistic 
man. 

"  Hope  is  but  the  painting  of  the  rain- 
bow, anticipation  the  coloring  of  the  painter, 
or  fore-taster,  as  I  said  before.  The  one 
fades,  at  least  melts,  into  blue  monotony ; 
the  other  endures  until  fulfilment  which,  and 
which  only,  sweeps  away  its  last  vestige  — ■ 
Prophecy, — what  will  be,  and  which  there- 
fore it  is  easy  to  wait  for." 

"  And  this  wonderful  picture,"  added 
Rodomant,  not  in  the  least  comprehend- 
ing his  companion's  drift,  and  too  subdued 
to  ask  it  —  not,  for  the  iu-st  time,  not  too 
proud. 

"  That  poor  plan  is  the  design  of  Pari- 
sinia, as  it  will  be,  as  I  shall  make  it,  if  I 
live." 

"  Will  there  be  a  fire  or  an  earthquake, 

then  ?  what  pity,  and  yet  ? " 

•  "  Neither  fire  nor  earthquake." 

"  A  war,  then  ;  they  will  pull  it  to  pieces, 
as  they  tried  to  do  once  before  —  a  war 
within  walls  ?  " 

"  There  will  be  a  war,  but  not  then :  war 
within  walls,  but  before  that.  They  may 
even  try  to  pull  it  to  pieces,  and  in  part 
succeed " 

"  And  you,  you  will  rebuild  it,  then  ;  you 
are  the  king  of  architects,  and  the  King  will 
employ  you." 


94 


RUMOR. 


"  I  am  not  the  least  of  architects,  nor  vaW 
the  King  employ  me.  Let  us  roll  up  this 
paper,  for  fear  of  any  one  coming  in,  to 
whom  it  would  not  please  me  to  show  it,  as 
I  have  done  to  you.  Then,  next,  I  have  to 
as:k  you  a  favor." 

Fifty  questions  quivered  on  Rodomant's 
lips ;  not  one  made  a  fluttering  escape  ; 
every  Instant  he  passed  with  this  heing,  so 
obscure  in  his  simplicity,  subdued  him 
more  and  more.  Porphyro,  meanwhile, 
began  to  roll  the  map  up  slowly ;  Rodo- 
mant  still  watching  him.  And  watching 
him,  perceived  for  the  first  time,  that  he 
wore  on  one  finger  a  ring.  This  ring  fasci- 
nated Ri)domant,  it  was  so  peculiar ;  its 
small  oval  gem,  neither  diamond,  nor  eme- 
rald, nor  amethyst,  nor  ruby,  possessing  a 
sort  of  opal  gleam — yet  the  gleam  itself 
cast  from  a  form  within  the  oval,  resembling 
a  minute  head.  Instinctively,  Rodomant 
snatched  the  magnifying  glas^.  Haunted  ! 
and  in  this  place,  on  that  man's  hand.  It 
was  the  smallest,  yet  in  expression  the 
divinest  portrait  of  the  haunting  angel  he 
had  yet  seen.  Every  feature  —  as  he  felt, 
without  seeing  the  original  —  more  like  than 
any  in  the  shops,  more  perfectly  because 
more  delicately  delineated,  and  every  line 
conserved  with  sjiring-like  freshness  —  a 
fairy  gem  of  gems.  Why  did  not  Rodo- 
mant, with  his  native  ingenuousness  and 
impetuosity,  inquire  of  Porphyro  the  name 
of  the  haunting  angel  ?  Porphyro  seemed 
to  have  little  reserve  on  the  subject,  for  he 
rested  his  hand  upon  the  roll  as  if  to  dis- 
play the  ring  more  fully,  and  the  lids  of  his 
eyes  dropped  closer,  as  if  pressed  upon  by 
an  intenser  pride  than  usual.  Doubtless,  he 
only  required  asking,  or  thought  that  Rodo- 
mant knew.  But  Rodomant,  as  we  have 
before  remarked,  had  his  ungodly  moods, 
and  his  sensations  shifted  on  the  instant  to 
their  least  celestial  frame  ;  he  felt  suddenly, 
and  for  the  first  time,  jealous,  and  in  so 
strong  and  unperverted  a  nature  jealousy  is 
like  despair,  it  can  neither  be  expressed  nor 
modified  ;  and  further,  his  pride  would  have 
bidden  him  perish  rather  than  ask  Por- 
phyro, whose  resemblance  the  ring  retained, 
or  how  he  had  become  possess  sd  of  it.  Of 
course,  Rodomant  went  on  tc  himself,  re- 
marking it  had  been  bought,  for  if  one 
could  purchase  large  portraits,  little  ones 
were  no  greater  marvel.  And  then,  it  started 
into  his  mind  that  it  little  became  one  so 
proud  and  careless  of  woman -kind  to  be 
jealous — jealous,  too,  of  whom  and  for 
what  ?  Let  this  man,  the  uglier  of  the  two 
of  us,  and  possibly  the  inferior  in  wits,  pre- 
serve the  bawble  on  his  lean  digit,  for  I 
would  not  if  I  could,  sport  the  finest  jewel 
to  advertise  my  own  eff"eminacy ;  so  Rodo- 
mant ended,  or  rather  halted  in  "his  thoughts, 
for  Porphyro  again  addressed  him  at  this 
point,  and  possibly  that  unexcited,  yet  most 
i»\citiug  voice,  caused  the  halt,  and  not  a 


lapse,  in  Rodomant's  own  review  of  the  ..asa 
under  his  consideration. 

"  Are  you  still  determined  to  remain  in 
Parisinia  ?  "  asked  Porphyro,  "  like  a  fair- 
built  ship,  M-hich,  after  her  trial-cruise, 
anchors  herself  in  some  azure  lake  under 
eternal  sunshine.  I  Avould  not  have  you  do 
so." 

/  would  not  have  you  —  a  style  roval 
M'hich  would  from  any  other  lips  have  nude 
Rodomant  long  to  smite  on  those  lips  their 
owner  ;  and  then  the  taunting  analogy,  as  if 
he,  Rodomant,  had  ever  idled  away  his  time, 
or  most  of  all,  were  idling  noiv. 

"  I  don't  see  why  I  should  go,"  said  Rod- 
omant, rather  in  the  school-boy  style  of  self- 
defence  ;  "  they  pay  me  very  well,  and  I  am 
sure  I  work  hard,  and  not  all  the  nonsense 
and  extravagance  they  display  here  have 
even  tempted  me  to  commit  the  least  error." 

"  For  those  very  reasons  I  want  you  to  go, 
and  for  others  better  and  more  solid,  posi- 
tive ones,  not  negative." 

"  I  don't  see  what  you  can  care  about  it 
for,  or  why  j/ou  "  —  Rodomant  could  not 
bring  himself  to  say  interfere,  so  he  added, 
"  interest  yourself  in  me  ;  you  are  no  man- 
ager, and  you  are  not  a  millionnaire,  nor 
even  the  lowest  artist,  and  you  are  certainly 
not  a  king," 

Porphyro's  pallid  lips  half  parted,  as 
though  he  were  about  to  smile,  here  — 
then  sharp  closed  tighter  than  ever,  as 
though  afraid  to  relent  so  far ;  but  Rodo- 
mant remarked  neither  the  one  expression 
nor  the  other :  ho  was  quite  guiltless  of  any 
peculiar  charm  ...ac  for  this  man  the  regal 
idea  possessed. 

"  I  am,  as  you  say,  not  a  king,  but  I  pos- 
sess influence  with  many  who  rule,  and  it  is 
of  one  I  would  speak  to  you,  but  not  just 
yet.  First  let  me  inquire  whether  our 
mutual  friend  who  arranged  the  scripture 
of  your  last  opera  —  the  one  you  have  com- 
posed lately,  I  mean  —  has  yet  called  upon 
you  again  about  another  ?  " 

"  He  has  called  often  enough.  He  always 
is  calling,  but  not  about  another  —  what 
other  ?  " 

"  The  one  they  want  you  t,o  write  next." 

"  On  the  same  subject  ?  " 

"  No  ;  and  that  is  why  I  forewarned  and 
wished  to  speak  with  you." 

"  What  subject,  then  ?  " 

"  Two  in  one." 

"  Like  your  offence,"  remarked  Rodomant, 
in  an  under  tone,  hoping  that  Porphyro 
would  hear  him,  and  that  so  he  might  get  at 
the  truth  which  yet  eluded  him.  Xo  such 
thing ;  Porphyro  only  gave  a  sort  of  hard 
sigh,  his  utmost  token  of  irritation  at  being 
interrupted. 

"  What  subject  ?  "  again  cried  Rodomant, 
impatiently. 

"There  is  love  in  it,  and  passion,  no  mur- 
!  der  this  time,  but  of  virtue,  and  that  self- 
murdered." 


RUMOR. 


95 


Rodomant  doubled  up  Hs  fist,  and  banged 
it  down  upon  the  table. 

"  I  will  not  wait  another  instant  unless  you 
are  explicit ,  and  for  one  thing,  I  am  sick,  of 
einging  suicide." 

"  Well,  and  I  hope  you  will  then  anticipate 
refusal.  I  was  sure,  I  felt  certain,  that  they 
would  sooner  persuade  you  to  offer  yourself 
as  a  suicidal  specimen  in  the  Pavilion  of  the 
Dead,  than  describe  in  your  exalted  strains 
the  secession  of  a  married  woman  from  her 
vows,  which  are  her  virtue." 

"  Adultery,  never  !  May  my  hand  wither 
and  my  brain  be  addled  first."  Rodomant 
never  called  any  thing  but  by  its  rigid,  how- 
ever startling,  name.  Still,  though  he  was 
entirely  and  innocently  resolved,  he  felt  a 
sort  of  chill  upon  his  impulse,  not  from 
within,  but  from  without,  from  that  strange 
being  whose  last  uttered  words  had  left  be- 
hind them  a  taunting  echo,  all  but  indetect- 
ihle  in  the  tones  themselves;  and  this  im- 
jjression  of  finite  scorn  is  one  inevitably  con- 
veyed, however  inadvertently,  by  those  who 
disown  principle,  and  have  no  respect  for  any 
who  by  principle  are  governed  ;  who  have 
neither  faith  beyond  the  grave,  nor  reverence 
for  any  who  believing  with  difficulty,  shelter 
themselves  in  the  temporal  support  of  a  pro- 
fessed creed.  Was  there,  then,  this  double 
spiritual  deficiency  in  Porphyro  ?  Rodomant 
did  not  suspect  or  inquire,  and  though  the 
chill  yet  breathed  upon  him  like  a  sudden- 
sprung  north-wind  under  a  July  sun,  he  was 
fascinated  as  much  as  ever,  and  as  anxious  as 
ever  for  his  companion's  drift.  He  had  not 
lung  to  wail,  for  Porphyro,  doubtless  quite 
ignorant  that  his  last  words  had  produced  an 
unpleasant  impression,  went  on  coolly. 

"  I  was  sure  of  that.  And  now,  do  you 
know  the  consequences,  if  you  should  refuse 
to  write  for  them  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  I  should  be  hissed ;  perhaps 
they  Mould  not  pay  me;  perhaps  —  well, 
perhaps  I  should  be  better  appreciated  after 
the  first  shock." 

"  You  are  a  child  — excuse  me  —  you  are 
a  child  to  me,  for  I  am,  I  believe,  exactly 
double  your  age.  You  would  certainly  not 
be  liissed,  certainly  not  be  paid,  most  cer- 
tainly the  light  of  Parisinian  faces  would  re- 
main forever  in  darkness.  All  very  polite, 
but  frigid  as  the  northmost  polar  ice-point. 
You  would  not  be  noticed,  you  would  return 
to  primitive,  ante-natal  insignificance  ;  you 
would  cease  to  be." 

Rodomant  stood  still,  wondering ;  and 
wistful  in  one  instjint  he  felt  as  though  he 
had  become  dependent ;  he  looked  earnestly 
at  Porphyro,  but  did  not  speak. 

"  Now,"  added  the  other,  "  neither  you 
nor  I  could  bear  that.  You  could  not  bear 
such  nonplusage,  and  I  hate  to  see  any  thing 
wasted,  more  than  all,  a  man  who  might  be 
a  hero  if  he  were  not  unluckily  endowed  with 
musical  genius.  You  must  go  directly,  and 
make  tlie  move  yourself.    You  must  give  out 


that  you  are  wanted  in  higher  quarters,  as  I 
shall  make  you  necessary.  Now  here  they 
are  tired  of  the  farce  of  murder,  and  clamor 
for  a  change  in  their  amusement,  to  pass 
the  few  remaining  hours  before  murder 
shall  be  real  again,  for  that  is  what  they 
wait  for." 

"  But  to  throw  up  every  thing " 

"  Throw  away  a  dusty  laurel-sprig  to  pick 
up  a  golden-palm  branch.  Where  I  wish  to 
send  you,  every  thing,  —  luxury,  and  love, 
and  religion  —  yes,  and  crime,  too,  are  all 
subservient  to  art,  made  subservient  by  the 
head  of  all,  whom  still,  for  a  little  space,  his 
subjects  imitate.  It  is  doomed  too"  —  Por- 
phyro added  in  an  altered  voice,  which,  in  a 
sort  of  self-communion,  seemed  to  retreat 
into  his  brain  —  "  it  is  doomed,  hut  not  yet, 
and  I  could  save  you  then,  for  then  you  would 
be  mine." 

Now  Rodomant  began  to  diff'er  from  the 
gentleman  who  had  depicted  Porphyro,  and 
called  his  converse  epigrammatic.  Rodo- 
mant began  to  weary  of  his  mystical  tirade, 
and  making  a  great  effort  to  arrive  at  a  set- 
tlement both  of  his  ideas  and  plans,  he  ex- 
claimed—  "  Where  am  I  to  go  then,  for  that 
is  the  real  question  ?  " 

Then  Porphyro  became  matter  of  fact 
again,  his  mystical  allusions  ceased.  "R  is," 
said  he,  "  to  the  court  of  the  Prince  Belvi- 
dere." 

"  Well,"  said  Rodomant,  "  I  have  heard  of 
him,  and  his  kingdom  is  one  of  the  smallest 
in  Europe." 

"  R  costs  the  most,"  said  Porphyro,  in  that 
same  cool  manner.  "  And  as  for  him  of  whom 
you  have  heard,  you  have  heard  little,  if  you 
know  not  that  a  caprice  of  his  makes  many  a 
career,  and  one  made  already,  such  a  caprice 
will  crown." 

"  Oh,  I  will  go  —  am  I  to  write  and  say 
so  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not ;  his  letter  is  addressed  to 
me.     I  wrote  tc  him." 

"  Who  are  you  —  what  are  you,  to  write 
to  kings,  and  be  written  to  by  them  ?  "  cried 
Rodomant,  passionately. 

But  passionlessly  Porphyro  returned,  with 
as  little  expression  of  voice  as  in  mien.  "  I 
am  w  hat  you  see  ;  and  as  to  who  I  am,  you 
know  my  name  ;  all  that  I  am  and  mean  lies 
there." 

"Porphyro  —  Porphyro,  why  that  means 
only  purple." 

"  And  what  more  meaning  therein  than  in 
red,  or  blue,  or  white  ?  Seriously,  my  dear 
Rodomant,  for  so  I  must  now  take  leave  to 
call  you,  if  you  resolve  to  go,  I  will  write  di- 
rectly. Ostensibly,  you  are  requested  to  con- 
duct your  opera ;  actually,  if  you  choose,  you 
may  become  a  court  resident,  for  the  prin- 
cess, his  daughter,  and  heiress,  requires  a 
pianist." 

"  I  never  will  again  dance  attendance  on  a 
woman." 

"  Wait — wait  and  see,  that  is  immaterial, 


96 


RUMOR. 


if  you  do  not  choose.     You  will  go.     I  shall 
write." 

"  Yes,  write,  but  particularly  say  that  I  will 
not  dance " 

"  No,  no,  you  shall  dance  for  no  one  unless 
you  choose.  All  your  expenses  will  be  paid 
for  the  journey." 

"  I  shall  pay  my  own  expenses.  I  am  rich 
"ow,  I  am  no  longer  in  debt." 

"  You  in  debt  H  "  exclaimed  Porphyro,  in 
a  tone  of  curiosity  most  unusual  with  him. 

"Only  to  a  woman  —  one  woman." 
_  "  Your  mistress  ?  "  inquired  Porphyro,  in 
his  coclest  voice. 

"  No,"  said  Rodomant,  angrily,  with  the 
blush  which  on  a  man's  face  is  nobler  than 
on  the  fairest  cheek  —  "I  never  had  one." 

"  I  tiiought  so,"  added  Porphyro,  and  said 
no  more  ;  but  stran^jely  enough,  after  Rodo- 
mant had  Jeft,  he  sat  a  minute  musing,  with 
a  dogged  and  close-drawn  frown,  then  mut- 
tered to  himself,  "  I  hope  the  princess  is 
safe." 


CHAPTER   XX. 

The  land  of  the  Princess  Belvidere  was  a 
sunny  land,  a  land  of  eternal  summer,  while 
the  earth  remaineth  ;  and  that  summer  wed- 
ded to  a  constant  climate  so  dehcious,  that  it 
seemed  to  smile  to  scorn  the  sultry  softness 
of  the  malaria-haunted  south,  and  the  smit- 
ing noon-heats  of  the  tropics.  There  is  no 
other  heaven  so  celestial-hued  as  the  sky 
which  brooded  over  that  calm  corner  of  the 
busy  earth,  and  which  dift'ered  alike  from  the 
burning  torrid  azure,  and  from  the  Italian 
sapphire  whose  shadows  are  cast  in  violet, 
and  whose  lights  are  more  melancholy  than 
any  moonshine.  The  sky  of  Belvidere  was 
the  purest  and  most  brilliant  rather  than  the 
deepest  or  the  brightest  blue,  its  atmosphere 
warm  as  life,  its  sun  fervent  as  youth  new 
kindled  by  love;  still  the  freshness  of  youth 
seemed  abiding  with  it  as  well  as  the  vital 
sweetness,  its  dews  dropped  rather  like  nour- 
ishing balm  from  Nature's  bounteous  heart, 
tlian  tears  of  Nature  in  her  long  and  late 
protracted  yearning  for  eternal  rest  and  uni- 
versal^ changeless  beauty.  And  the  most 
purifying  influence  of  the  elements  breathed 
constantly  upon  that  fortunate  shore,  for  the 
sea  was  its  loveliest  boundary,  and  added  its 
own  fragrance  to  the  thousand  souls  of  per- 
fume that  wandered  in  every  wind  —  no  wind 
wilder  than  a  breeze  in  Belvidere.  That  sea 
was  a  sea  without  storms,  as  the  sky  was  a 
sky  without  clouds  ;  its  blue  was  as  peculiar, 
as  pure;  but  deeper  and  far  more  clear  than 
the  heaven-veiling  mystery  of  the  firmament, 
for  you  could  look  down  fathom  after  fathom 
of  that  crystalline  azure,  and  behold,  soft- 
ened to  enchantment  by  the  oceanic  atmos- 
phere all  its   unearthly  shapes   of  life  and 


semi-Hfe,  its  beautiful  and  strange  inhabitants 
of  flashing  fin  or  tranquil  vegetation,  its  mys- 
tic untlower-like  blossoms,  and  half-transpar- 
ent verdure,  flourishing  without  fresh  dews. 
And  of  all  that  summer-sea,  the  calmest  and 
clearest  bay  was  as  it  M-ere  reserved,  to  sur- 
round and  set  a  seal  upon  the  loveliest  nook 
of  its  shore  —  the  soft  slope,  on  which  stood, 
and  had  stood  for  ages  of  its  summer-time, 
the  summer-palace  of  the  princes  of  Belvi- 
dere. That  bay  no  steam-engendered  phan- 
tom of  modern  shi])ping  was  allowed  to  ap- 
proach, nor  seemed  it  haunted  ever  save  by 
vessels  resembling  those  which  the  n.avy  of 
Tarshish  once  in  three  years  sent  King  Sol- 
omon ;  by  glittering  pleasure-galleys ;  and 
by  whole  navies  at  once,  of  that  fairy  of  the 
deep,  the  pearly-orbed  and  rose-oared  nauti- 
lus. The  rocks  shutting  in  the  bay,  showed 
little  of  the  stern  character  of  rocks,  they 
were  covered  to  the  water's  edge  with  ram- 
bling shrubs  and  wild-flowers,  which  are  in 
the  north  tlie  choicest  treasures  of  the  hot- 
house, growing  freely  there  as  grass  in  north- 
ern fields,  in  rich  but  not  rank  luxuriance. 
And  the  palace,  which  its  own  gardens  only 
separated  from  the  sea,  was  a  crown  of  art's 
beauty  to  the  loveliness  of  nature,  not  as  pal- 
aces usually  are,  either  a  blot  upon  nature's 
beauty,  or  a  crown  of  ugliness  to  a  city  with 
little  beauty  of  its  own.  Its  architecture  was 
ancient,  of  origin  Oriental,  and  the  only  ideal 
type  in  architecture  existent,  that  is  untam- 
pered  with  by  modern  taste.  And  for  its 
furniture,  its  appointment,  its  finish,  luxury 
might  be  said  to  have  been  exhausted  on 
them,  were  not  that,  the  inventive  faculty  of 
selfishness,  inexhaustible  as  selfishness  itself. 
Rodomant  yielded  to  Porphyro's  injunction 
that  he  should  leave  Parisinia,  not  because 
he  was  sick  of  that  city,  nor  hopeless  of  fur- 
ther self-distinction,  nor  even  because  Por- 
phyro received  and  replied  to  letters  of  prin- 
ces, but  simply  because  he  had  met  with  a 
will  stronger  than  his  own,  strong  among  the 
strongest  as  was  that  will  of  his.  In  fact,  he 
yielded  much  more  easily  than  one  of  more 
elastic  and  slight  volition  ;  his  broke  at  once 
under  an  adapted  touch,  where  the  weaker 
would  have  bent,  and  risen  again  after  the 
blow  had  ceased  to  vibrate.  Rodomant,  in 
fact,  was  subdued  like  the  untutored  giant  by 
the  agile  and  artistic  athlete.  Then,  having 
yielded,  his  pride  caused  him  to  go  forth  ad- 
venturously, and  with  a  good  grace  ;  he  even 
entertained  his  admirers  and  enviers  at  a 
parting  banquet  provided  by  those  artists 
who  minister  to  the  palate  in  Parisinia,  and 
was  feasted  in  return  ;  those  who  envied  him 
the  most  admiring,  and  his  admirers  the  most 
envying,  his  fate  in  being  sent  for  to  a  court 
which  had  never  sent  for  a  musician  the  na- 
tive of  Parisinia.  To  Rodomant's  entertain- 
ment, he  had  the  imprudence,  out  of  grati- 
tude, to  ask  PorphjTO  —  not  in  person,  for 
he  could  not  get  at  him ;  and  received  such 
a  cool  rebuff  —  not  only  in  the  calm  refusal, 


RUMOR. 


97 


but  the  assurance  that  he  had  done  for  Rod- 
omant  all  that  was  in  his  |)o\ver,  and  could 
not  be  troubled  again  on  the  subject  —  that 
Rodomant  would  instantly  have  retracted  his 
intention  of  departing,  but  for  that  same 
courteous  crowd  of  admirers  and  enviers, 
wliose  genuine  gratification  at  his  departure 
assureci  him  that  his  work  there  was  over,  and 
his  place  there  no  more. 

During  his  journey,  idleness,  not  indo- 
lence, took  possession  of  his  mind  again, 
and  he  yielded  it  to  it  implicitly.  Indeed, 
there  was  nothing  for  him  to  do  ;  he  felt 
like  a  child  who  has  just  lost  one  task-mas- 
ter, and  to  whose  home  or  school  another 
has  not  yet  arrived.  Such  moods  are  com- 
mon at  intervals  to  all  minds  of  genius, 
•  except  those  doomed  to  an  early  grave,  and 
to  wiiose  incajjacity  for  self-surrender  to 
repose  or  pastime  of  the  faculties,  their 
death  should  ever  be  traced.  Rodomant  did 
notliiiig  but  enjoy  all  things  that  happened, 
or  rather,  for  the  journey  and  the  voyage 
were  alike  prosjjcrous  and?  serene,  the  very 
uneven)  t'ul  condition  in  which  nothing  ha])'- 
pejied  actually  but  the  lovely  changes 
wrought  by  shifting  atmosphere,  and  suc- 
ceeding day  and  night  upon  shore  and  sea. 
Few  indeed  of  the  most  poetical  imagina- 
tions are  capable  of  enough  abstraction  to 
deliglit  in  the  sea  during  a  voyage  by  steam. 
To  Rodomant  it  was  just  as  romantic  so  to 
travel  as  on  the  wings  of  the  wind,  or  a 
roc's  wide  fabled  plumes.  No  material 
sound  or  image  interrupted  the  inward 
sense,  at  once  visionary  and  musical, 
through  which  he  received  impressions  as 
actual  to  him  as  the  snort,  the  sob,  the 
griine-diH'using  vapor  of  the  steam-ship. 
He  heard  alone  the  deep  throb  of  the  sea's 
eternal  pulse,  breaking  against  the  bows  as 
against  one  of  its  own  rocks  ;  he  only  lis- 
tened to  the  rich  regular  chime  of  the  waves 
that  chafed  the  keel,  the  lower,  lighter  ring 
of  the  foam-bells,  the  constant  under-song, 
lowest  of  all  and  deepest,  which  as  few  ears 
hear  in  the  chorus  of  the  sea  as  can  detect 
the  harmonics  in  an  orchestra.  And  as  poets 
betake  themselves  to  Nature's  solitudes, 
feeding  upon  her  as  the  only  nurture  for 
their  souls  ;  for  love  starves  poetry  in  the 
poet,  and  takes  its  place  a  while  ;  §o,  idle  as 
he  was,  Rodomant's  imagination,  nourished 
through  his  ear,  was  gathering  strength  and 
sweetnt'ss  for  future  deeds  —  for  there  are 
deeds  in  art,  and  those  alone  survive. 

But  Rodomant's  idleness  might  have  set- 
tled into  chronic  indolence,  if  it  had  been 
protracted  longer  than  it  was.  For  as  he 
approached  the  end  of  his  journey,  his  whole 
nature  rose  in  rebellion,  longing  to  go  on 
just_  as  he  was,  to  lengthen  that  lapse  of 
spiritual  luxury,  repose,  into  all  life.  It  was 
tlierefore  as  well  for  him  tliat  he  was  com- 
pelled to  break  it  off  short,  and  return  to 
that  active  life  which  is  full  of  duties  for 
men  of  every  class,  difiering  perhaps  with  , 
13 


each  individual,  as  well  as  in  every  class. 
Even  the  apparition  of  the  lovely  shore 
nearest  the  bay  of  Belvidere,  that  paradise 
of  scenery  and  climate,  failed  to  recall  his 
energy,  and  that  last  day  he  staid  below 
deck,  dividing  his  time  between  discontented 
glances  at  the  oval  pictures  framed  by  the 
cabin  windows,  and  changing  every  instant, 
and  rolling  up  his  head  in  a  cloak,  with  his 
fingers  in  bis  ears,  to  shut  out  every  sound. 
Even  that  strange  longing  crept  upon  him, 
which  tempts  so  many  sensitive  natures 
when  on  the  verge  of  a  shock  of  being  a 
change  of  habits  and  associations  ;  he  de- 
sired at  that  time  to  die,  to  drop  off  at  once 
easily  and  forever,  that  "mortal  coil"  which 
the  liesh  is  bidden  by  its  Creator  to  wear  till 
the  spirits'  struggles  to  endure,  not  he  free, 
have  fretted  the  cord  to  a  thread,  so  thin 
that  one  breath,  the  last,  divides  it. 

But  at  evening,  when  the  sun,  undefiled 
by  mist,  set  vivid  as  a  diamond  below  the 
distant  water-line,  when  the  other  side,  the 
dilated  rising  moon  brimmed  with  an  undaz- 
zling  gold  the  far  edge  of  the  duskening 
jjaradise  on  shore,  then  voices  fell  lower  on 
deck,  hands  dropped  one  by  one,  the  wheel 
stood  still,  and  the  vapor-wreath  melted 
into  a  trail  that  mingled  with  the  stainless 
air.  Rodomant  perceived,  though  yet  his 
ears  were  stopped,  the  cessation  of  ail 
vibrating  tremble,  the  stillness  fell  on  him 
as  a  dead  pause  in  a  dream,  the  silence 
seemed,  like  too  much  sound,  to  stun  him. 
He  raised  his  head,  with  his  now  opened 
ears,  listened,  —  not  long  without  a  sign. 
He  was  called  upon,  he  was  wanted,  and  had 
he  not  been  abstracted  beyond  worldly  im- 
pressions, he  might  have  marvelled  that  he 
was  called  upon  as  gently  as  he  was,  foi  he 
was  the  solitary  passenger  to  disembark  at 
that  point.  He  went  on  deck,  not  hastily, 
but  pondering  as  it  were  over  his  precise 
position,  as  yet  unascertained.  The  vessel 
lay,  heaving  gently  on  the  waters,  as  on  its 
pillow  a  heart  at  rest,  and  like  one  brought 
to  a  certain  point  in  a  dream,  when  knowing 
it  is  a  dream,  one  cannot  wake,  and  wonders 
what  will  happen  next, — awakening,  or  that 
crisis  which  actually  to  the  dreamer  never 
arrives,  being  itself  the  waking  moment; 
like  that  dreamer,  Rodomant  stood,  seeing 
without  looking,  hearing  without  listening, 
full  only  to  his  own  consciousness  of  the 
certainty  that  he  had  to  land,  knowing 
neither  how  nor  where,  when  suddenly  he 
heard  a  low,  ravishing  cadence  :  music  upon 
the  waters  ! 

Music  upon  the  waters,  and  soft  as  though 
it  were  but  the  greeting  whispered  among 
reeds  by  the  soft  south-wind  of  that  eterni.. 
summer.  And  sweeter,  if  not  softer,  as  il 
approached  ;  for  then,  and  not  till  then,  it 
sighed  off  into  one  of  his  own  divinest  melo- 
dies. He  looked  down,  for  so  his  instinct 
directed  him,  and  lo  !  the  musicians  were  at 
his  feet,  in  a  boat  delicate  and  fantastical^ 


98 


EUMOR. 


which  small  as  it  was,  rocked  in  the  gentle 
but  louj,^  undulation  caused  by  the  larger 
vessel.  The  bright  brass  instruments  flashed 
like  gold  in  the  moonlight's  golden  clarity, 
ana  at  that  enchanted  hour,  their  tones  — 
the  most  earthly  of  all  the  tongues  of  music 
—  sounded  most  heavenly,  or  so  the  hearer 
thought.  By  magic  the  boat  seemed  to 
have  floated  thither,  for  Rodomant,  in  his 
ecstatic  trouble,  perceived  not  the  rocky 
])oint  it  had  lately  rounded;  and  so  by 
magic  he  seemed  to  descend  into  it,  for  he 
certainly  was  not  conscious  where  he  put  his 
feet.  Soon,  very  soon  they  left  the  shadow 
of  the  brooding  steam-ship,  which  moved 
again,  and  put  far  out  to  sea.  Then  sweet 
sound  held  all  the  air  alone  ;  nothing  could 
be  heard  excejjt  the  golden  tongues,  flatter- 
ing the  musician  with  liis  own  sweet  spells, 
and  the  silvery  si)lashes  of  the  twelve  oars 
keeping  time  —  as  sweet,  if  not  as  flattering. 
They  turned  the  corner  of  the  rock-curved 
bay,  and  then  even  the  slender  ripple  on  the 
more  exposed  surface  of  the  sea  behind 
them  ceased,  —  heaven  seemed  less  calm 
than  ocean  now,  for  the  stars,  their  sparkle 
drowned  in  the  full  moon's  golden  sjilendor, 
pijured  their  faint  lustrous  images  on  the 
water  as  on  sheening  crystal,  and  the.  moon 
met  her  golden  double  there  ;  and  it  might 
have  been  diflicult  to  know  which  was  the 
real  and  which  the  reflex  firmament,  but  for 
the  fleets  of  the  fairy  nautilus,  playing  at 
peace  in  that  lovelier  than  fairy  light,  all 
round  the  gliding  boat.  But  Rodomant 
scarcely  saw  them  —  his  eyes  were  strained 
towards  the  shore,  where  far  beyond  the 
clouds  of  foliage,  a  thousand  palace  win- 
dows shone,  and  reminded  him  of  more  sub- 
stantid  than  fairy  favors — more  romantic 
in  that  mood,  to  his  perception,  than  the 
enchantments  of  dreamy  Arabia,  and  posi- 
tively to  him,  in  their  actuality,  more  mys- 
terious too. 

Rodomant  knew  not,  that  it  was  in  fact 
the  undisturbed  sway  of  beauty,  unthwarted 
by  any  suggestion  or  shape  of  discord,  that 
Cimsed  his  romantic  and  real  enchantment. 
All  was  so  fair,  all  was  —  or  seemed  —  so 
holy ;  was  it  indeed  then,  in  spite  of  the  mel- 
ancholy ravings  of  world-derided  saints,  so 
righteous  to  rejoice?  —  and  it  must  be  par- 
doned to  Rodomant  that  he  felt  a  while  as 
though  the  suftering,  the  anguish,  the  de- 
spair of  millions  tin-ough  the  "  few,"  were 
but  a  fable  to  be  flouted. 

Beautiful  as  an  Arabian  dream,  nor  knew 
he  how  much  like  a  day-reality  of  old  Ara- 
bia rose  before  Rodomant  the  sweep  of  the 
palace  steps,  the  state  landing-place  of  the 
purest  marble,  whose  polish  the  tender  cli- 
mate had  but  breathed  on  to  render  more 
ingrained  and  subtle,  and  with  balustrades, 
whose  pattern  seemed  of  snow-enwoven 
thwarting  threads  —  so  finely  the  marble 
had  been  fretted  —  this  sweeping  staircase 
»ed  to  a  roofed  passage  of  marble  also  ;  and 


when  Rodomant  entered  it,  he  betrayed  a 
wonder  and  an  admiration  which  would  have 
lost  him  caste  forever,  except  among  the 
servants  of  Belvidere,  which  servants  he 
took  for  lords  or  courtiers  at  the  least,  in 
their  dark,  velvet-gloomy  garments,  and 
with  their  grave  countenances,  while  they 
wore  at  their  sides  (thought  Rodomant)  such 
splendid  swords.  Little  knew  he  the  secret 
of  those  grave,  grand  countenances,  or  why 
those  swords  were  worn.  The  wonder  and 
the  admiration  of  Rodomant  were  not  mis- 
spent ;  the  passage  was  of  that  same  archi- 
tecture we  noticed,  and  which  might  be 
termed  of  type  archaic,  but  from  which  of 
Nature's  God-stamped  ideas  was  this,  the 
earthly  idea,  taken  ?  The  roof  was  fretted, 
too,  and  through  each  fret  some  star-gleam 
quivered  ;  but  between  those  delicate  open- 
I  ings  dropped,  or  seemed  to  fall,  suspended 
ever,  long  icicles  in  marble,  not  wild  and 
shapeless  as  the  icicles  of  frost,  but  of  form 
harmonious,  regular,  repeated  each  by  each  ; 
and  on  either  sitle  a  broader  fretwork  sliowed 
the  moonlight,  laying  the  whole  scene  under 
the  enchantment  of  her  silver-golden  wand, 
while  within  the  fretwork  here  and  there 
stood  orange-trees,  and  soft  lamps  hanging 
over  them,  revealed  their  depths  of  leafage, 
thick  studded  with  their  star-like  blossoms 
and  ruby-streaked  if  golden  globes  of  fruit. 
Rodomant,  who  had  never  seen  such  trees 
before,  would  fain  have  paused  and  feasted 
on  their  sweetness  and  their  mystery,  but 
between  those  servants  whom  he  took  for 
courtiers,  he  dared  not,  and  perhaps  the  ])e- 
cuHar  manner  of  those  persons  ])rocured 
them  their  reputation,  for  unlike  all  ser- 
vants whom  Rodomant  had  ever  seen,  they 
neither  stared  at  him,  nor  with  each  other 
"  exchanged  eyes  ;  "  they  also  suited  their 
steps  to  his,  as,  mazed  with  the  magic  sur- 
rounding him,  he  crept  cautiously  along. 

The  passage  opened  to  a  small  hall,  at 
whose  entrance  two  real  courtiers  —  though 
he  knew  not  the  diff'ei-ence  —  met  him.  And 
this  hall  need  not  be  described,  because,  at 
that  moment,  Rodomant  beheld  it  not  — 
saw  nothing  but  the  short  and  slightly 
broken  line  of  figures  each  side  a  throne  at 
the  upper  end  —  or  what  he  thought  a 
throne,  and  which  was  a  chair  of  gold-starred 
sombre  velvet,  raised  a  step,  on  which  stood 
one  he  feared  to  look  upon ;  strangely 
enough,  for  he  was  no  moral  poltroon,  sick 
with  morbid  loyalty,  and  had  stood  untrem- 
bling  in  the  regal  presence  of  Parisinia  —  of 
Iris  —  a  great  kingdom,  not  a  small  prince- 
dom like  this  of  Belvidere.  Yet  a  cold 
shudder  that  hot  night  seized  Rodomant, 
advancing  in  a  line  towards  the  prince,  and 
though  his  perfect  self-possession  —  that 
gift  accruing  to  him  by  right  of  his  perfect 
simplicity  —  kept  him  in  the  line,  yet  he  saw 
nothing  but  a  mist  which  had  with  the  shud- 
der rushed  before  his  eyes.  Now  Porphyro 
had  not  taught  Rodomant  a  single  letter  of 


RUMOR. 


99 


etiquette,  he  was  too  sage  ;  he  knew,  though 
he  had  taken  care  to  hide  from  Rodomant, 
that  Prince  Belvidere  held  his  hosom  musi- 
cian in  the  Hght  of  the  extinct  court-fool  — 
no  matter  about  rigid  manners,  if  art  were 
inexhaustible,  and  wit  not  wanting  either  — 
eccentric,  or  even  arrogant,  they  would  alike 
prevail.  So  Rodomant  walked  straight  up 
to  the  step  and  bowed,  while  the  prince, 
who  desired  to  adapt  himself  to  Rodomant's 
associations,  and  confounding  the  habits  of 
his  country  with  those  of  England,  from  his 
knowledge  of  their  historic  origins,  held  out 
his  hand.  But  from  that  narrow  white  and 
almost  dazzling  hand,  the  mist  cleared  first 
before  the  eyes  of  Rodomant,  nor  could  he 
bring  himself  to  touch  it :  fair  as  it  was,  it 
looked  to  his  vision  terrible,  nor  could  he 
aoount  for  his  own  sensation,  which  was 
exactly  the  same  as  he  had  once  experienced 
in  Germany,  when  a  medical  student  had  ex- 
hibited to  him  a  prize  of  his  —  a  dead  white 
hand  of  a  gentleman  wlio  had  murdered  his 
wife,  and  been  executed.  So  Rodomant, 
with  a  sick  swell  of  his  heart  upwards, 
choked  instead  of  speaking,  which  misbe- 
havior the  Prince  interpreted  into  the  op- 
pression of  over-reverence,  just  as  he  took 
the  bow,  which  Rodomant  performed  over 
his  hand,  for  a  sign  of  plebeian  homage  to 
the  divinity  of  kings.  Attributing  also  to 
his  own  intense  fascination  the  intense, 
though  rapid  gaze  with  which  Rodomant 
regarded  him,  the  Prince  little  suspected  the 
intolerable  aversion  which  that  insignificant 
bein^  conceived  for  his  august  person.  The 
Priuco  was  peculiarly  graceful,  pallid  but 
handsome,  his  dark  hair  soft  as  silk,  his  ex- 
pression mild  ;  but  to  that  countenance,  at 
once  so  delicate  and  so  sensual,  Rodomant 
took  as  deadly  a  dislike  as  to  the  hand.  He 
would  have  given  the  world  to  be  any  where 
else  ;  he  almost  hated  Porphyro,  whom  even 
in  remembrance  he  could  not  loathe  ;  a  ner- 
vous terror  seized  him.  Suppose  he  should 
run  away  down  the  hall  with  his  back  turned  ; 
his  heart  seeraed  to  spin  instead  of  to  beat, 
every  instant  lengthened  ominously  ;  when, 
not  more  than  a  true  minute  after  he  had 
reached  the  chair,  the  Prince  spoke,  in 
Parisinian,  that  universal  language  among 
those  who  welcome  to  courts  strangers  of 
whose  accomplishments  they  are  not  sure. 
"  My  d;iughter,"  said  the  Prince,  afiably, 
"  desires  that  you  shall  be  presented  to 
her." 

Now  Rodomant,  during  his  journey,  had 
contrived  to  forget  the  princess,  nor  had  she 
recurred  to  him  when  he  had  beheld  her 
father.  What  could  the  child,  above  all  the 
daughter,  of  such  a  parent  be  ?  He  found 
time  in  that  moment  to  inquire  of  himself, 
and  again  he  shuddered.  But  even  as  he 
shuddered,  a  sweet  secure  sensation,  as  of 
an  angel  hovering  over  a  death-bed,  struck 
through  and  through  him  —  what  Avas  this  ? 
He  glanced  in  the  direction  of  the  Prince's 


white  waving  hand,  and  then  half  behind, 
half  beside,  the  royal  chair,  he  perceived  a 
cluster  of  ladies  ;  nor  was  it  strange  he  had 
not  been  attracted  to  them  before,  for  unlike 
the  courtly  women  of  other  countries,  they 
were  all  attired  in  black.  This  group  re- 
treated, dividing  at  the  centre,  and  in  the 
midst!  —  But  again  Rodomant  was  blinded, 
not  by  a  mist  before  his  eyes,  but  a  tender 
glory  dropped  on  them,  and  he  sprang  rather 
than  stirred  a  few  steps  forward,  then  sank 
upon  both  his  knees.  She  held  out  her  thin, 
unjewelled  hand,  and  without  seeing  it,  by 
the  instinct  of  adoration  he  perceived  and 
found  it,  and  touched  it  with  his  lips.  Kissed 
the  hand  of  one,  the  sandal  of  whose  shoe 
no  man  was  allowed  to  finger,  on  pain  of 
death  !  —  Madness,  but  a  madness,  calm  as 
the  moon  engendering  it ;  joy,  so  still,  that 
though  it  brimmed  the  sense  of  bliss,  not  a 
drop  gushed  over  at  the  eyes  ;  love  sprung 
like  a  sudden  rainbow  new  and  perfect  on 
passion's  storm-cloud  ;  and  passion  —  oh, 
how  storm-like,  yet  held  by  suspense  as  quiet 
as  the  trances  of  the  thunder.  All  these 
moods  at  once  steeped  the  bewildered  soul 
of  Rodomant,  and  now  he  only  felt,  oh,  that 
I  might  kneel  here  forever,  and  so  die,  wi;h 
this  impression  on  me !  The  princess  was 
the  haunting  angel !       , 

Now  any  person  with  a  gleain  of  intelli- 
gence over  and  above  ordinary  dulness, 
would  have  merely  been  sensible  how  natu- 
rally it  had  happened,  on  seeing  a  princess, 
to  have  seen  her  picture  first ;  for  the  swartest 
queens,  the  most  ignobly-visaged  noble 
among  the  fair  are  fond  of  patronizing  art 
in  one  guise  of  hers  at  least ;  they  never 
object  to  publishing  their  portraits,  and  al- 
lowing them  to  be  exhibited  in  shops  as  well 
as  galleries,  for-  the  benefit  of  the  artists  who 
achieved  them.  And  oh,  shameless  cynic  ; 
ungrateful  for  the  heavenly  gift  of  beauty, 
Rodomant  still  kneeling,  after  that  wild  salute 
of  his,  and  in  the  very  depth  of  his  delicious 
wonder,  allowed  the  suggestion  to  cross  hi^ 
spirit ;  what,  if  after  all,  she  is  vain  with  the 
vanity  of  women  ?  Then  Porphyro's  ring 
seemed  to  clasp  his  brain  and  brighten  round 
it,  swelling  larger,  like  the  cold  coil  of  a  snake 
—  a  suspicion,  but  of  what  he  knew  not  — ■ 
seemed  as  though  it  must  strangle  him ; 
when  the  ])rincess  spoke,  and  the  strangling 
suspicion  dropped  harmless,  like  the  serjient 
charmed  by  music.  He  looked  up,  he  rose, 
half-wringing  his  hands  in  a  fond  but  inexo- 
rable despair.  For  the  very  audacity  of  such 
a  nature  saves  it  —  so  rapidly  conviction  fol- 
lows upon  impression.  How  had  he  dared 
to  worship,  to  kneel,  to  kiss  ?  How  dared 
he  look  upon  her  and  live  P  blasphemously 
he  thought  of  Him  whom  if  a  man  beholds 
he  dies ;  and  was  perhaps  forgiven,  so 
mighty  a  task  it  is  to  learn  to  love  on  earth, 
encroaching  not  on  the  love  of  heaven.  Un- 
happily for  him  he  had  permitted  himself  to 
dwell   on  the   image   of    one   unknown,  M 


100 


RUMOR. 


though  being  unknown,  she  therefore  ex- 
isted not ;  and  to  know  her,  meeting  her, 
was  to  divide  him  from  her  forever,  —  so 
he  instantly  decided,  not  without  pride. 

But  it  was  so  long  l)efore  the  princess 
spoke,  and  so  long  Ilodomant  had  knelt, 
that  all  the  courtiers  —  the  Prince  himself 
also  —  wondered.  When  had  the  serene  but 
distancing  dignity  of  this  august  girl  ever 
failed  ?  And  when  at  length  she  spoke,  so 
few  and  constrained  were  her  words,  that 
her  father,  judging  her  by  himself,  liable 
himself  to  the  caprices  of  an  insane  rest- 
lessness, imagined  that  she  had  taken  a  dis- 
gust to  Rodomant,  having  had  frequent 
reason  to  know  and  to  rue  her  difficult  taste 
in  men.. 

Her  "  welcome  to  Belvidere,"  sounded 
cold,  like  sweet  bells  heard  in  frost,  yet  oh 
how  exquisitely  sweet,  sweeter  to  Rodomant 
because  he  felt  as  though  they  dissolved  a 
mon^entary  connection  forever,  as  the  last 
moments  of  life  are  dear,  far  dearer  than 
they  deserve  to  be,  to  the  martyr  and  dying 
saint  alike.  But  that  kiss,  so  soft  and  wild, 
returned  upon  him,  fell  heavy  on  his  heart 
as  lead,  his  own  audacity  rushed  over  him 
—  he  himself  had  annihilated  her  possible 
favor,  his  own  possible  bliss  —  oh  that  he 
ha.l  died  first,  and  at  her  feet !  He  believed 
that  he  had  roused  her  spirit,  quickened  to 
disdain  her  maiden  pride,  and  at  the  same 
instant  iced  her  royal  blood  with  voiceless 
indignation.  Never  woman  nor  princess  so 
vain  as  in  that  hour  he,  and  as  all  the  too 
strongly  self-sensitive ;  he  felt  far  more  than 
the  occasion  merited,  and  dropped  at  once 
from  the  empyrean  in  which  her  star-like 
image  dwelt,  to  that  slough  of  self-contempt 
which  had  impeded  the  first  aspirations  of 
his  youth,  and  made  them  desperate  strug- 
gles ;  in  fact,  the  reaction  of  his  audacity 
was  as  profound  a  humiliation  for  the  mo- 
ment, as  perhaps  he  deserved. 

After  her  cold  greeting,  it  was  scarcely  an 
instant  before  the  princess,  followed  by  her 
ladies,  turned  to  go,  and  Rodomant,  thrilling 
through  and  through  with  the  sharji-stung 
vanity  he  took  ,  for  pride,  fancied  she  had 
vanished  so  abru]>tly  from  pity  for,  if  not 
disdain  of,  his  wild  ignorance.  His  eyes 
A'ere  fastened  on  the  ground,  and  his  frown 
«as  at  the  darkest  of  its  wrinkling  shadow 
—  hnlf -petrified  with  the  consciousness  of 
what  he  might  have  lost,  he  could  not  stir. 
Fortunately  for  him,  the  Prince  was  tired  of 
this  dumb  audience,  and  how  anxious  soever 
to  test  the  powers  of  charming  found  so  effi- 
cacious by  Saul,  had  other  amusements  to 
busy  his  august  brain  then. 

So  he  said,  half-yawViing,  still  gravely,  as 
all  princes  and  all  men  address  in  Belvi- 
dere, "  You  are  fatigued,  will  like  to  retire ; 
we  shall  meet  again,  if  not  to-night,  to-mor- 
row." then  waving  his  glove,  he  also  turned 
to  go,  tb'  ough  an  arch  behind  the  throne, 
whose  f^7  iperies   two   pages   held   back   on 


each  hand  for  the  train  to  pass  —  the  prin. 
cess  and  her  train  having  passed  through  an- 
other door  —  and  Rodomant  just  caught  a 
dazzle  of  countless  lamps  in  a  lighted  space 
beyond,  before  the  draperies  fall  dark  again. 
The  hall  was  vyet  filled  with  servants  in  ranks 
unbroken,  saving  only  two,  who  left  the  line, 
and  bowing  low  to  Rodomant,  pointed  gravely 
to  another  door,  and  moved  towards  it  in 
preceding  him.  They  led  the  way  through 
what  to  Rodomant  seemed  miles  of  gal- 
lery and  corridor,  bewildering  for  stately 
splendor  to  a  gaze  fed  lately  on  Parisinian 
taste,  with  its  everlasting  mirrors  and  iue\'i- 
table  gilding.  Here  all  decorations  were 
ages  old,  unworn  as  the  architecture,  and 
like  that,  had  never  felt  the  touch  of  damp 

—  that  most  unconquerable  of  conserva- 
tism's foes.  Pictures,  each  worth  a  royal  ran- 
som, —  statues,  each  equal  to  the  value  of 
the  fairest  slave,  ])ainted  ceilings  that  seemed 
dropping  grapes  to  make  one  thirst,  lilies  one 
longed  to  gather,  roses  one  yearned  to  smell, 

—  bronzed  jialm-trees  s])rung  from  a  mosaic 
floor,  with  cressets  flaming  from  each  branch 
for  lamps,  —  walls  hidden  deep  in  damasks, 
old  when  the  tapestry  of  the  North  was 
wrought,  and  fresh  now  tliat  tapestry  was 
threadbare,  —  great  sheen  of  glistering 
shields,  star-shapes  of  unsheathed  swords, 
and  rows  of  rapiers  -with  gem-incrusted  hil^^s 
that  shone  like  the  jewel-case  of  a  barbaric 
queen  ; —  all  spoils  of  the  age  when  fighting 
was  an  art,  but  unused  in  battle  for  centuries 
that  ran  close  to  the  end  of  a  millennium  now. 
Something  of  the  old  passion,  which  when 
royalty  bought  loyalty  by  love,  was  young, 
seemed  to  haunt  this  palace-stillness,  and 
hang  like  a  perfume  in  its  paths ;  so  loi.g 
will  heroic  memories  of  one    hero  only,  last, 

—  how  much  longer  if  of  a  race  of  heroes 
buried  and  turned  to  dust,  or  embalmed  in 
raai-ble,  not  permitted,  for  all  their  state,  that 
gentlest  boon  of  death  —  to  change.  And 
Rodomant,  excited  to  vivid  enthusiasm,  bui-n- 
ing  with  romance,  would  have  liked  to  linger 
tlvn-c  all  night,  and  people  the  solitude  with 
m.,.-  ■  -I  I'les  fairer  than  any  that  had  ever 
lived  Liicicj  but  he  could  not  pause,  for  his 
canductors  passed  on  quickly  —  as  it  was, 
they  were  far  in  advance  of  him  when  they 
threw  open  a  door  at  last,  held  it  so  till  he 
came  up  to  them,  then  bowed  as  he  went  in 
instinctively,  and  closed  it  after  him.  It  was 
a  door  of  a  chamber  with  doors  beyond  — 
and  yet  beyond, —  a  palace  in  the  palace,  so 

I  it  seemed  to  Rodomant.  He  knew  not  that 
the  suite  of  rooms  was  that  always  occupied 
by  the  domestic  musician  of  the  Prince,  any 
iriore  than  he  knew  how  and  where  his  pred- 
ecessor was  cursing  him  for  having  sup- 
planted him  —  in  poverty  and  neglect  all  the 
more  deeply  felt  because  he  had  been  thrust 
back  into  both  after  sudden  if  undue  exalta- 
tion, just  such  as  had  now  befallen  Pvodo- 
mant.  In  all  respects  these  chambers  were 
the  same  —  save   one.     There   was   a   littla 


RUMOR. 


101 


anteroom  unMrnished,  mosaic-floored,  and 
damask-huAg,  and  roofed  with  what  seemed 
layers  of  concave  shells  dropping  tears  of 
coral  that  never  fell ;  there  was  a  small  sa- 
loon with  pictures,  soft  carpets,  and  softer 
seats  ;  a  study,  with  books  and  instruments  ; 
a  sleeping-room,  whose  bed  was  nung  with 
golden  net — to  keep  out  the  stinging  insects 
that  haunted  even  ^Aai  eternal  summer  —  a 
little  divan  in  which  was  a  bath  ;  a  miniature 
oratory,  and  beyond  all,  a  pearl  of  conserva- 
tories," shaped  as  a  crystal  lotus,  but  with  in- 
verted lips  ;  this  the  new  feature  of  which  we 
spoke.  Strange  freak  too  —  a  conservatory 
in  a  climate  where  every  flower  conserved 
for  colder  climates  by  a  coke-engendered 
summer  stived  in  glass,  blossoms  to  the 
moon  in  open  beds.  But  this  was  a  conser- 
A'atoi-y  of  coolness,  not  of  heat,  the  temper- 
ature lowered  to  that  of  Rodomant's  own 
native  air.  This  he  knew  not,  he  only  re- 
alized, stepping  into  a  dim  green  twilight  of 
leaves  lit  by  one  soft  lamp  alone,  that  there 
flourished  old  flowers  which  as  a  child  he 
had  gathered  in  the  woods  and  fields,  and 
carried  home  to  ihe  old  German  town  to  die  ; 
forget-me-nots,  anemones,  blood-red  veined 
lilac,  and  frosted  while ;  pale  pink  wild 
roses,  and  countless  blooms  whose  names  he 
had  forgotten,  for  they  had  been  of  his  own 
ci'eation  when  a  child.  In  the  midst,  beneath 
the  lamp,  a  tiny  fountain  sprang  from  a  basin 
that  looked  hollowed  from  a  crystal,  and 
was  sunk  in  vivid  moss,  with  fern  leaves 
waving  round  it,  just  stirred  on  their  delicate 
stems  by  the  delicate  vibration  of  the  tin- 
kling water-drops  —  like  kisses  broken  into 
song.  Beside  the  fountain,  crowning  charm 
of  that  cool  fairy-spell,  there  stood,  there 
grew  —  a  little  living  linden,  in  whose  frail 
green  leafage  and  golden  blossom  was  a  nest 
of  nightingales,  singing  to  that  cool  summer 
or  eternal  spring.  Rodomant  stepped  spell- 
bound, breathless,  to  the  fountain's  edge,  and 
saw  the  sparkle  of  the  water  fretted  by  darker 
dimples,  as  the  leaf-shades  lay  upon  the  rip- 
ple and  were  pierced  l)y  the  lamp-lights  be- 
tween them.  The  linden  full  in  blossom  as 
in  leaf,  seemed  to  ring  out  all  its  golden  flow- 
ers hke  fairy-bells  to  greet  him.  The  bloom- 
bells  hung  and  rung  so,  the  nightingales  nes- 
tled and  sang  so,  in  the  linden  over  his 
old  father's  grave  in  the  old  German  city. 
Great  proof,  if  simple,  that  love's  essence  is 
immortal,  however  transmutable,  that  there 
is  never  a  time  when  the  heart  is  sad  or  glad 
with  tender  reminiscence,  that  the  thought  of 
one's  parents  —  bad  or  good  ;  of  one's  broth- 
er—  Cain  or  Abel;  of  one's  sister  —  deep- 
hearted  or  frivolous,  does  not  melt  that 
soft  mood  into  tears.  The  excess  of  Rodo- 
mants's  emotion  welled  up,  like  a  spring 
over-brimmed  with  sudden  rains,  as  calm  at 
its  surface  as  at  its  source ;  and  in  that  sweet 
human  frame  he  thought,  not  only  of  his  old 
father,  innocent  as  a  gray-haired  child,  but  of 
his  living  mother,  who  had  often  provoked 


!  him  to  laughter,  but  never  to  tears  before. 

I  Yet  that  How  of  sudden  feeling  perhaps  made 
him  in  part  ungrateful  —  he  never  consid- 
ei-ed  it  possible,  though  it  was  obviously 
more  than  probable,  that  this  refreshing 
pleasure  had  been  prepared  on  purpose  for 
him  ;  he  only  enjoyec  "^e  present  happiness 
as  we  are  too  apt  to  dv  ivithout  referring  it 
to  human  care  or  sympathy.  He  wailed, 
how  long  he  knew  not,  till  recalled.  A  sil- 
ver-toned bell  rang  loud  —  he  obeyed  the 
direction  towards  the  ante-room  of  the 
sound ;  there,  at  the  open  door,  stood  a 
beautiful  pale  boy,  with  the  darkest  eyes, dark 
velvet  dress  with  a  small  silver  cross  on  the 
breast,  a  little  sword  by  his  side,  and  a  plumed 
cap  in  his  hand.  He  held  to  Rodomant  a 
small  sealed  note  —  opened,  it  showed,  writ- 
ten in  German,  these  words  :  — 

"  If  you  are  not  too  tired,  may  I  have  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  you  for  a  short  time  this 
evening  in  the  garden  ;  my  page  will  show 
you  the  way.  If  you  are  weary  say  so,  or 
you  will  grieve  me  much.  My  page  speaks 
none  but  his  own  language. 

"  Adelaida,  Princess." 

Rodomant  shuddered,  then  stood  rigid ; 
deei)er,  stranger  than  ever,  wrought  the 
spell  —  it  was  enough  to  arrest  the  flow  of 
common  life  in  human  veins.  A  sort  of 
rapturous  recklessness  succeeded  the  sur- 
prise ;  he  felt  desjierate,  as  in  a  delicious, 
but  too  hastening  dream,  in  which  we  fear 
so  to  wake  before  the  dream's  perfection. 
He  gave  the  page  a  slight  thrust  with  his 
hand  —  the  child  ran  on  —  but  this  time,  tc 
his  comfort  and  relief,  not  through  the 
almost  endless  spaces  he  before  traversed  ; 
it  was  a  shorter  and  a  less  illuminated  way, 
where  darkling  shapes  of  sentinels  seemed 
stationed  every  where,  as  they  were  outside 
every  where,  walking  silent  up  and  down. 
Passing  out  through  an  immense  door,  Rod- 
omant found  himself  behind  the  palace, 
whose  back,  like  its  front,  was  one  corusca- 
tion of  illuminated  windows  ;  such  illumina- 
tions, however,  as  were  lighted  every  night. 
Intense  curiosity,  and  the  daring  one  feels 
in  dreams,  drove  Rodomant  round  in  front 
—  the  page  following  this  time  instead  of 
leading  —  for  sounds  of  music  seemed  borne 
from  that  direction  in  unknown  quaint 
strains.  Arrived  at  the  angle  of  the  im- 
mense building,  he  saw  the  vast  lawn,  like 
a  white  and  waveless  sea,  and  groups  upon 
it  whose  shades  fell  dark,  but  whose  dresses 
looked  like  robes  of  spirits,  all  white  or 
black.  The  women,  whose  singular  som- 
breness  of  costume  had  struck  him  in  the 
hall,  all  wore  white  now  —  still  half-veiled 
from  the  head  to  the  knee,  but  not  the  face, 
were  veiled  in  white,  their  fans  were  white, 
and  all  those  jewelled  wore  only  diamonds, 
while  very  many  wore,  instead  of  jewels,  the 
large  bright  fireflies  of  the  country,  caught 


102 


RUMOli. 


and  cagi'd  in  silvei-  net,  and  fastened  in  their 
hair  and  bosoms.  The  men,  dres'sed  all  in 
black,  gave  their  dark  contrasting  harmony 
to  the  spiritual  white,  such  as  is  so  rarely 
seen  in  costume,  because  colors  thwart  and 
scatter,  rather  than  combine  with  black  and 
w  hite.  They  were  dancing  —  all  —  and  Rod- 
omant  in  that  short  survey  found  that  the 
dance-art  was  less  a  pastime  than  a  deep 
and  intricate  delight ;  scarcely  a  smile  broke 
the  sweet  yet  grave  monotony  of  motion, 
and  for  conversation,  the  air  was  winged 
with  delicious  whispers  only.  Kodomant, 
after  one  of  his  sweeping,  piercing  glances, 
saw  that  in  that  company  was  no  princess 
—  among  a  thousand  faces  he  would  have 
known  hers ;  and  now,  as  her  idea  came 
back,  like  a  star  which  a  cloud  has  passed 
over,  he  felt  a  profound  awe,  almost  a  tender 
terror,  of  her  possible  return — and  that 
entirely  because  he  had  learned  her  name. 
And  this  magnetism  of  a  name  was  simply 
one  of  those  coincidences  which  chance 
every  day  presents,  such  as  when  we  talk  of 
a  long-absent  friend  a.'  morning,  and  he  pays 
us  a  visit  at  noon,  or  we  dream  of  a  letter  at 
night,  and  receive  it  by  the  post  on  the  mor- 
row. Still  it  is  possible,  that  as  the  late  dis- 
covered laws  of  science  which  may  l)e  termed 
iileal,  are  so  simple,  that  their  simplicity 
caused  them  to  be  overlooked  for  ages  by 
the  pedant  and  the  philosopher,  and  to  be 
grasped  by  the  humble  and  the  perse verant 
after  all ;  so  the  laws  of  spiritual  connection 
may  be  too  pure  to  be  greatly  complicated. 
Enough  —  Kodomant  felt  as  though  his 
song-poem,  Adelaida,  had  been  prophetic 
sacrilege,  and  were  punishable  with  the  igno- 
miny of  detection  and  disdain  by  her  —  its 
prophetic  heroine,  one  whose  foot  should, 
rightly,  be  upon  his  neck.  And  while  so 
musing,  deep  again  in  self-disgrace,  a  shadow- 
dropped  on  the  clear  pathway  at  his  feet. 

"  You  are  here  —  that  is  kind,"  said  the 
princess,  "  I  saw  you  come  out,  1  was  in  the 
gardens  behind  you,  so  I  followed  you  —  1, 
and  you  too,  must  be  unseen  to-night." 

At  the  sound  of  her  voice,  so  changed 
from  its  cold  key ;  so  cordial,  gentle  now, 
ll'>domant  raised  his  eyes  from  lier  shadow, 
and  fixed  them  on  her  face.  The  first  glance 
told  that  she  had  not  changed  her  dress,  still 
wearing  the  sombre  robe  that  softened  her 
dazzling  beauty,  the  dai'k  veil  half-dropped 
from  her  golden  hair,  and  her  heavenly 
countenance  turned  shadeless  to  the  moon. 
Witli  modesty  far  higher  than  any  pride,  she 
sliowed  no  recognition  of  llodomant's  ecstatic 
and  insatiate  gaze ;  her  cheek  glowed  not, 
her  features  quivered  not,  and  when  she  led 
th3  way,  with  her  slow  and  soundless  steps, 
she  turned  towards  him  still.  It  was  a  face 
that  made  a  crisis  in  the  history  of  human 
beauty,  so  human  was  it  where  the  most 
divine,  its  majestic  outline  disguised  by  the 
pathos  of  its  expression,  its  princeliness  lost 
iu  a  loftier  nobiity.     The  forehead  so  vast 


and  clear,  with  the  *emples  an  alabaster  tint, 
the  soft  sharpness  of  whose  edges  told  of 
fretted  thought  and  wisdom  drawn  from 
sadness  —  the  hair  that  seemed  to  fling  out 
radiance  from  the  delicate  head  —  the  still, 
transparent  eyes,  gray  as  the  first  creeping 
beam  of  morning,  but  by  this  moonlight 
dark  as  violets  —  the  lips  whose  passionate 
yet  unsmiling  sweetness  caused  the  impres- 
sion of  genius,  stamped  upon  the  aspect,  to 
sink  into  that  of  love  ;  all  these,  Kodomant 
now  felt,  that  having  seen  represenieA,  he 
had  never  seen  before,  and  he  also  detected 
a  mystery  besides,  blended  with  her  demeanor 
so  kindly,  as  with  her  clear  regard  —  a  mys- 
tery whose  cause  was  indetectible,  or  which 
he  dared  not  in  his  imagination  to  try  to 
solve. 

"  Oh,"  he  gasped  at  last,  "  you  are  not 
like  your  pictures,  yet  I  thought  no  one  could 
live  and  be  so  beautiful." 

She  smiled,'^  smile  which  revealed  with 
all  its  sweetness  a  vivid  wit,  albeit  too  tem- 
pered and  too  subtle  for  the  sarcasm  that 
can  vent  itself  in  words.  Kodomant  marked 
that  voiceless  irony,  and  it  pierced  him,  as 
the  wit  of  tlie  beautiful  alone  can  pierce  the 
heart  of  man  ;  he  revenged  himself  by  being 
actiu^Uy  rude :  — 

"  Oh,  princess,"  he  exclaimed,  "  are  you 
then  vain,  as  other  women  ?  —  it  is  no  harm 
in  them  ;  they  are  consistent  so  ;  but  you  — 
how  can  you  bear  your  portraits  to  hang 
every  where,  for  brutal  men  and  vain  women 
to  make  remarks  upon  ?  " 

"  What  remarks  did  they  make  ?  "  asked 
the  princess,  quietly,  withal  an  interested 
accent  that  astonished  Kodomant,  quite  as 
much  as  the  calm  gathered  from  her  blood 
which  prevented  lier  easiest  manner,  her  most 
earnest  tone,  from  seeming  or  sounding  the 
least  fomiliar — nay,  the  least  intimate  —  tj 
the  most  audacious,  such  as  he.  "  You  do 
not  tell  me,"  she  urged  again.  Now  Kodo- 
mant had  never  heard  a  single  remark  ;  he 
had  but  made  observations  of  his  own,  and 
well  knew  what  they  were.  To  escape  con- 
fession, he  went  on  abruptly:  — 

"  But  why,  princess,  do  you  have  so  many 
pictures  painted  ?  there  cannot  be  enougii 
artists  who  are  loorthi/." 

"You  wish  to  know?  —  you  shall,"  she 
said.  "  It  is  that  men  may  know,  and 
women  too,  if  there  is  faith  to  be  placed  in 
looks,  that  mine  at  least  are  human." 

Bitter  was  the  stress  she  laid  on  the  last 
word  :  Kodomant  felt  that  it,  too,  partook 
of  the  mystery  that  ruled  her  aspect. 

"  I  thought  you  were,  — that  your  picture 
was  of  a  saint,"  said  he,  "  not  a  saint  wlio 
had  ever  lived,  though." 

"  I  am  no  saint,"  replied  the  princess, 
sighing,  "  nor  am  I  sure  I  wish  to  be  one ; 
there  are  too  many  martyrs  upon  earth  not 
to  render  saintship  upon  earth  a  mockery 
and  a  mimic  heaven  is  nothing  for  hereafter. 

"  But  there  are  saints,"  said  Rodomant. 


RUMOR. 


103 


"  Xot  on  earth  ;  "  but  she  added,  "  I  am 
glad  VDU  thought  me  one." 

Had  she  known  the  core  of  the  character 
with  which  she  deaU,  she  would  last  of  all 
have  uttered  this.  Rodomant's  chest  rose, 
his  ])ulses  dangerously  quickened. 

'.'  Do  you  know,"  she  went  on,  "  I  ought  to 
have  told  you  where  we  are  going,  and  have 
requested  your  permission,  in  case  you  felt 
unequal  to  any  exertion  —  if  so,  speak.  I 
em,  I  believe,  unreasonable,  for  I  want  you 
to  play  to  me  to-night.  I  thirst  —  and  I 
know  (from  one  who  knows)  that  the  foun- 
tains lie  under  your  hand.  And  perhaps  for 
some  days  hence  you  will  not  be  disengaged  ; 
you  will  have  too  much  to  do  to  indulge  me 
so." 

Rodomant,  transported,  could  have  kissed 
her  garment's  hem.  "  Any  thing,  at  all 
times,  princess,  and  above  all,  now." 

"  See,"  said  the  princess,  "  we  have  already 
walked  some  little  way,  for  I  would  not 
summon  attendants,  and  my  page,  who  is 
behind  us,  will  do  all  we  want !  I  am  taking 
you  by  a  j)rivate  path  to  the  chapel,  it  is  my 
way  ^^  hen  I  go  there,  and  I  beg  you  always 
to  use  it  when  you  wish  to  play  alone." 

"  The  chapel ;  we  are  to  go  to  a  chapel 
then  ?  " 

"  There  is  no  room  elsewhere  for  the 
organ,  which,  I  believe,  is  the  largest  in  the 
world  ;  but  no  player  ever  put  its  whole 
power  forth  ;  scarcely,  it  seems  to  me,  could 
mortal  hands.  There  is  a  story  of  an  old 
musician  who  did  so,  and  Avho,  in  so  doing, 
smashed  the  altar  window." 

"  Stuff,"  exclaimed  Rodomant,  under  his 
voice. 

"  I  fancy  so  too,"  she  said  ;  "  still  there  is  a 
law  that  it  must  not  be  done,  and  it  never  is 
done.  If  ever  such  a  calamity  happened,  it 
must  have  been  some  centuries  ago,  and  the 
window  must  have  been  restored  by  human 
hands,  for  there  it  is,  and  I  believe  is  the  fin- 
est in  Europe  ;  it  is  certainly  the  largest,  like 
the  organ."  As  the  princess  spoke,  she  turned 
out  of  the  full  moonlight  into  a  winding  and 
narrow  way.  It  was  bordered  with  sensitive 
plants,  and  above  them  light-leaved  aspens, 
shivering  to  the  breezeless  air,  as  though 
departed  spirits,  unquiet  yet,  had  rushed  to 
take  shelter  in  their  shade ;  and  its  turf  was 
entirely  composed  of  those  short,  subtle- 
/?cented  herbs  which  aromatize  the  intense 
purity  of  the  atmosphere  in  the  Arabian 
desert.  And  in  and  out  of  the  leaves,  like 
shapes  the  restless  souls  had  passed  into, 
was  scattered  the  quivering,  dim,  gold- 
emerald  lustre  of  countless  fireflies.  This 
path,  with  its  strange,  spiritual  secrecy,  was 
in  marvellous  contrast  with  the  scene  beyond 
At  ;  at  once  the  wildest  and  the  loveliest  of 
the  palace  outskirts,  and  the  highest  ground. 
Here  gushed  and  overpowered  the  milder 
flower  fragrance,  the  intense  perfume  of 
fi'uit;  vines,  laden  with  great  grapes  like 
those   of  Eshcol,   crawled    on  the    ground 


amidst  the  pines  and  melons,  all  basking  in 
the  mellow  moonlight ;  pomegranates,  figs, 
and  peaches  were  fallen  in  wasted  showers 
round  dwarf  groves  of  geranium  aiid  jasmine 
thickets,  while  every  where,  entwined  with 
every  thing,  and  cheek  to  cheek  in  counllesg 
myriads,  were  roses  —  roses  whose  bloom  the 
moonlight  could  only  veil,  not  quench,  and 
whose  leaves  strewed  the  turf  so  thick  that 
it  was  as  though  a  storm  of  rosy  snow- 
fiakes  had  dropped  on  that  eternal  summer. 
Rodomant,  after  the  first  glimpse  of  all  this 
lovehness,  lit  by  the  moon's  soft  blaze  '.o 
beauty  seeming  supernatural  —  yet  Nature's 
only  —  stood  still,  for  an  instant  forgot  the 
princess,  who  stood  still  too,  and  watched 
him  with  a  distant  yet  gentle  interest.  He 
stood  still,  for  he  could  not  move ;  he  was 
chained  with  adoration  ;  his  heart  swelled  in 
a  single  sigh  that  could  not  s])end  itself,  at 
the  scene  both  near  and  distant,  over  which 
the  heaven  seemed  to  bend  in  one  vast 
smile.  Along  the  line  of  the  horizon,  where 
the  heaven  kissed  the  earth,  undulated  high, 
fair  hills,  whose  summits  of  dazzling  yet  sil- 
very brightness  outshone  the  lustre  of  the 
moon.  Those  hills,  whose  sides  were  dressed 
in  an  eternal  summer,  had  for  their  crowns 
the  eternal  purity  of  snow.  And  nearer,  in 
the  moon's  undaunted  glory,  were  vineyards 
and  groves  of  olive,  sweeps  of  corn,  with 
intervening  glens  where  foliage  blackly  glit- 
tered, through  which  white  villas  gleamed. 
There  was  over  the  whole  landscape  a  sleepy 
stillness,  but  it  was  defined  as  by  day. 

"  It  is  beautiful,  exquisitely  beautiful,"  ex- 
claimed Rodomant,  suddenly,  and  using  his 
favorite  phrase  when  charmed  ;  as  suddenly 
he  was  reminded  of  the  princess,  and  turned 
upon  her  all  the  rapture  of  his  regard.  "  I 
am  very  sure,"  he  added,  sighing,  "  that  it 
must  be  the  promised  land." 

"  No,  no,"  exclaimed  the  princess  quickly, 
brokenly,  as  though  some  strong  emotion 
checked  her  even  as  she  spoke,  or  as  if  in 
her  enthusiasm  she  felt  the  want  of  ner  own 
tongue,  for  she  still  used  Rodomar.''s.  "It 
is  not  even  6n  its  borders,"  she  continued  in 
that  startled,  troubled  voice.  "  Beautiful  as 
is  my  country,  all  countries  are  nearer  that. 
The  eternal  ices,  the  stunted  forests  of  the 
north  are  nearer,  the  red-hot  deserts  without 
a  fountain  or  a  tree,  the  damp  sodden  citiea 
that  rise  out  of  the  islands  of  fog." 

Again  the  mystery  confron.ted  Rodomant 
as  a  visage  veiled  ;  this  time  he  gazed  aston- 
ished at  the  princess,  whose  accent  dropped 
from  its  agitation  at  sight  of  his  surprise  to 
a  soft  reserve,  still  touched  with  sadness,  as 
she  changed  her  theme. 

"I  fear  it  is  getting  late  —  I  fear  that  I 
am  selfish.  See,  the  chapel  is  just  at  hand, 
through  the  little  cedar  grove."  And  walk- 
ing on,  she  turned  her  face  aside,  though 
the  velvet-like  density  of  the  cedar  shadow 
was  uncleft  by  a  single  moon  ray,  and  the 
path  they  trod  was  as  grayly  dim  as  the 


104 


RUMOR. 


twilight  of  a  moonless  night.  As  they  left 
the  grove,  she  said,  quite  calmly  now, 
"  There  are  no  lamps  lit  in  the  chapel  to- 
night, but  I  know  you  can  play  in  the  dark 
—  such  mitigated  darkness  too  as  it  will  be 
with  that  moon  of  ours,  and  the  gleam  from 
the  altar,  too." 

"  Ah,  the  altar  and  the  candles,"  said 
Kodomant,  M-hom  the  cedar-dusk  had  re- 
stored as  well  to  his  composure.  ♦'  You  are 
a  Catholic  princess,  of  course  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  so  —  in  one  sense  I  believe  I 
am  ;  in  one  sense  they  say  not.  I  never  con- 
fess." 

"  Because  you  never  sin,"  he  almost  whis- 
pered. 

"  What  say  you  ?  "  cried  the  princess,  her 
voice  sharp-toned  with  mingled  shame  and 
reverence,  no  longer  broken,  but  passion- 
ately distinct. 

"  Never  let  me  hear  —  nor  say  you  such 
words  again,  nor  think  them  !  " 

The  form  of  the  chapel  rose  full  and  vast 
on  Rodoman't's  vision  now  —  where  its  dark 
edge  crossed  the  brightness  round  their  feet, 
she  paused  again,  and  Hfting  her  eyes  to  the 
rich  blue  heavens,  she  murmured, — 

"  See,  they  are  not  pure  in  His  sight." 


CHAPTER   XXI. 

Entering  the  chapel,  Rodomant  mar- 
velled at  its  name  ;  it  was  such  only  in  de- 
sign and  form,  but  in  size  a  cathedral,  the 
largest  he  had  seen.  The  rare  proportion  of 
the  wide,  light-fretted  arches,  hanging  in  the 
gnlden  darkness  like  a  spell-work,  to  dissolve 
with  the  coming  of  the  day, — the  roof  un- 
pillared  vaulting  out  of  sight,  the  sea  of 
shadow  that  bathed  the  long  vista  at  its 
base,  the  far  yet  vivid  gleam  of  the  altar 
candles,  each  looking  like  a  spotless  column 
crowned  with  flame,  and  that  white  Vision 
reared  above  all,  watching  through  the  still- 
ness over  all ;  —  these  things  fell  on  the 
brain  of  Rodomant,  and  clung  there  like 
some  reality  intangible  and  awful*  as  a 
dream.  "  You  worship  here,  princess  ?  "  he 
asked,  as  after  granting  him  the  time  for 
bne  long  look  below,  she  hovered  before 
him  up  a  spiral  staircase  with  balustrade  of 
marble. 

"  Sometimes,  when  I  am  in  the  mood,  but 
that  is  seldom." 

"  How  so,  in  such  a  place,  with  such  im- 
ages around  you,  to  stir  thoughts  of  the  Holy 
One  ?  " 

"My  Holy  One  dwells  not  in  temples 
made  with  hands." 

"  Where,  then,  is  His  temple  —  all  Nature, 
I  suppose  ?  " 

"  But  few  find  Him  there  !  " 

"  Where,  then,  do  you  find  Him,  oh  prin- 
eess,  for  He  must  be  ever  near  you  ?  " 


"  In  your  heart  I  believe,  in  mine  T  hope. 
"  Now  princess,"  said  Rodomant,  turnin;^ 
upon  her  as  she  touched  the  last  stair,  and  i 
rested  to  regain  her  breath,  "  that  does  not 
satisfy  my  reason,  that  arrangement  of  yours. 
In  a  book  all  Catholics  hold  good,  and  all  good 
Christians  read,  there  are  some  such  words 
as  these  :  I  dwell  in  the  humble  ai  d  con- 
trite heart  —  God  speaks  there  too.  Now 
you  are  not  contrite,  for  you  never  confess, 
you  say,  and  I  am  not  humble,  because  — 
because  I  am  proud,  and  one  can't  of  course 
be  both." 

"  Humble  before  human  clay  —  never,  that 
were  to  sink  as  low.  But  humble  before 
God  —  are  you  not  so  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,"  said  Rodomant.  "  I 
have  never"  —  here  his  voice  shook  slightly, 
and  he  felt  his  lips  turn  cold  —  "  never  real- 
ized God  in  my  life  —  princess,  I  believe  I 
am  a  heathen." 

"  ])o  not  use  a  word  so  meaningless  —  or 
wh?ch  means  the  ignorant ;  you  are  not  such. 
But  it  may  be  you  are  not  "to  blame  for  this 
single-minded  pride  of  yours;  you  have  not 
been  forced  to  the  contrition  for  tiie  sins  of 
others  who  regret  not,  but  glory  in  them  — 
in  which  humiliation  consists." 

Rodomant  was  confounded,  not  as  with 
an  argument ;  but  he  could  not  dash  the 
lucid  truth  aside ;  there  was  nothing  to  he 
sard,  except  exactly  what  he  thought.  "Prin- 
cess, you  are  very  religious." 

"Ibelieve  not  —  no,  that  is  the  last  thing 
I  am  ! " 

They  had  reached  the  great  space  of  the 
organ,  whose  height  Rodomant  could  not 
I  guess  in  that  vaster  height,  the  roof;  but  its 
i  immense  width  and  depth,  its  pipes  like 
thickly-clustered  columns  of  some  basaltic 
!  cavern,  and  its  rows  above  rows  of  sharply- 
I  glimmering  keys,  from  which  the  page 
'  deftly  swept  the  covers,  made  Rodomant's 
I  blood  dance,  and  his  fingers  tingle.  Another 
I  moment  and  the  giant-music  slumbering  was 
'  awakened  in  its  gentle  strength.  But  strange 
i  to  say,  just  as  he  was  about  to  seat  himself, 
j  he  looked  at  the  princess,  her  pm-e  pale 
j  face,  her  heavenly  eyes,  drew  him  back 
I  from  that  elder  spell,  his  craft  refused  its 
cunning. 

"  Oh,"  he  exclaimed,  and  his  audacity  was 
softened  to  supplication  by  his  tone,  "oh, 
princess,  I  will  play  any  time — if  I  only 
may  talk  to  you  now  —  if  you  behead  me 
afterwards." 

He  moved  as  he  spoke,  not  close  to  her 
side,  but  distant  many  feet,  within  the 
gilded  fretwork  that  surrounded  the  place 
for  the  organist  instead  of  curtains.  She 
gave  no  sign,  save  that  she  forbade  him  not, 
and  smiled  a  moment  as  he  urged  again. 
"  Princess,  what  do  you  mean  by  saying  you 
are  not  religious  ?  " 

"  Because  the  first  element  of  religion,  in 
which  there  are  two  elements  —  and  two 
only,  it  seems  to  me  —  is  love  to  God,  aa 


RUMOR. 


105 


tlie  second  is  charity,  or  love  to  man.  Now, 
who  loves  God  ?  do  you  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him  as  she  spoke,  her  voice 
was  even  severe,  and  her  glance  scrutinized. 
Rodomant  felt  his  brain  spin,  as  with  the 
revolution  of  a  dazzling  wheel,  which 
plunged  his  thoughts  into  bright  confusion, 
then  stood  still,  and  they  rose  strong  and 
steady. 

"  I  believe,"  he  said  at  length,  in  the  wary 
tone  which  attested  his  singular  sincerity, 
"  I  do  believe  that  I  worship  the  Supreme, 
and  that  is  all." 

"  Ah  !  "  returned  the  princess,  her  words 
again  divided  by  low  deep  sighs,  "  that  is 
just  the  worst ;  I,  too,  worship  the  Supreme, 
it  is  so  easy,  for  to  worship  is  to  a  pure  heart 
as  necessary  as  breath  to  life —  and  He  is 
every  where.  His  beauty  is  eternal  upon  the 
earth ;  faith  in  His  being  is  easy  enough, 
but  love  for  Him,  how  is  that  ?  But,"  she 
added,  turning  to  him  a  sterner  gaze  and  the 
severity  strengthening  in  her  accent,  "  you 
have  no  such  excuse  as  /,  for  you  have  not 
seen  what  I  have  seen,  you  know  not  the 
secret  with  which  I  groan.  You  have  lived 
with  Art,  and  for  it ;  the  greatest  gift  of  God, 
except  that  love  which  I  cannot  feel,  is  yours. 
You  have  genius,  nor  have  you,  hitherto, 
misused  it  or  misled  your  life.  You  sJwuld 
be  grateful,  you  should  love  with  such 
a  love  as  I  would  die  a  thousand  times, 
each  time  with  a  thousand  tortures,  but  to 
feel!" 

Mystery  within  mystery,  thought  Rodo- 
mant, nor  pleasurable  ones,  it  seems  —  what 
realization,  not  dim  but  vivid,  of  what  naked 
terror,  had  tinctured  this  august  pure  nature 
with  a  despair  as  unnatural  as  her  self-con- 
demnation ?  The  hour  and  the  circumstances 
conspired  to  make  the  fact  of  her  di'cad 
suffering  too  precious  in  his  sight.  She  a 
princess  and  he  her  servant,  nay  her  slave 
at  pleasure !  The  loftiness  of  the  theme, 
which,  afe  it  seemed  instinctively,  the  royal 
maid  had  chosen,  and  her  unworldly  anguish 
which,  dwelling  on  it,  drove  all  earthly  con- 
siderations from  them  both  —  as  t^vain  souls, 
strangers  in  the  flesh,  should  stand  on  a 
wrecking  vessel  side  by  side,  whom  each 
wave  might  unite  in  death,  united  therefore 
for  the  l)rief  breath  left  them.  Therefore,  in 
simple  and  tender  sympathy,  Rodomant 
sought  to  soothe  hei  thoughts. 

"  But,"  said  he,  "  I  cannot  tell  why  it 
should  afflict  you,  that  you  are  not  actually 
a  saint  —  you  do  not  ^\ish  to  be  one  —  you 
said  so." 

"  Not  for  myself!  nor  is  example  any  thing, 
alas  !  But  it  seems  to  me  strange  that  yours 
is  not  a  softer  nature,  a  nature  tender  enough 
for  the  flowers  of  heaven  to  inhabit  it.  I 
often  think,  that  had  I  lived  where  humanity 
is  human,  where  men  are  ruled  by  a  man 
and  not  a  demi-demon  crowned  with  folly 
—  had  I  dwelt  where  the  life  of  eveiy  day 
is  made  sweet  by  simple  virtue  —  not 
14 


heroism,  but  goodness  ana  its  joy  ;  I  should 
not,  either,  have  been  ungrateful  —  I  should 
have  loved  Him  as  my  soul,  nor  have  ever 
loved  another  so  that  He  could  be  jealous  of 
my  heart." 

For  the  last  few  words  only,  in  which  she 
spoke  of  human  love  as  a  pos.sibility,  a  strange 
tenderness  had  stolen  on  her  speech,  and  as 
she  uttered  them,  she  looked  out  into  the 
chapel ;  but  her  eyes  seemed,resting  on  nothing 
there.  Rodomant  leaning  forward  to  catch  a 
glimpse  of  their  expression  —  certain  at  that 
instant  that  he  was  not  noticed  —  saw  a  mist 
upon  them  that  almost  ckew  dimness  to  his 
own  ;  the  source  of  tears  was  brimmed,  but 
she  would  not  let  it  overflow  one  drop  —  nor 
he.  Certainly  the  ten-or  had  melted  from 
those  late  dilated  orbs  ;  and  if  it  was  still 
passion  that  clouded  their  deep  lustre,  the 
trouble  was  one  of  joy.  Rodomant  had 
looked  to  see  —  had  seen  —  but  the  strong 
instinct  of  his  sturdy  pride  was  true  to  it ; 
he  felt  that  as  she  had  eluded  the  sub- 
ject of  their  conversation,  as  she  had  mo- 
mentarily forgotten  him,  so  was  his  place  by 
her  no  more  for  that  time.  His  curiosity, 
his  reverence,  his  sympathy,  his  worship  — 
all  sank  together  in  the  depths  of  that  un- 
fathomed  pride  ;  and  without  a  whisper  or  a 
rustle,  he  was  gliding  —  literally,  for  the 
musical  are  ever  delicately  footed  as  deftly 
fingered  —  behind  her  down  the  stair,  when 
he   saw  through  the  last  fret  of  the  gilded 

j  cage  about  the  organ,  a  sudden  glancing  light, 
that  crossed  the  steadfast  altar-candles  far 
beneath  tlieir  flaming  tongues,  and  that 
glimmered,  then  was  quenched  in  the  abyss 
of  shade  from  which  the  arches  seemed  to 
spring.  Far  be  it  from  us  to  say  that  this 
light  so  little,  and  so  swiftly  darkened,  would 
have  deterred  Rodomant  from  his  retreat ; 

j  on  the  contrary  he  was  hastening  downwards, 
when  the  voice  of  the  princess — all  the  more 
divinely  sweet  when  she  was  unseen,  as  per- 
fumes rise  from    flowers   more  delicious  in 

■the  darkness  —  stayed  him,  as  it  must  have 

j  done  had  he  been  told  that  to  pause  an  in- 

'  stant  was  instant  death. 

"  I  fear  I  have  kept  you  to-night  too  long, 
yet  wait  a  moment  longer  ;  I  have  one  friend 
here  to  whom  I  wish  to  present  you,  and 
see  he  has  just  come  in  ;  he  is  crossing  the 
chapel  to  go  to  bis  own  rooms,  which  are  out> 
side,  near  at  hand." 

"  The  man  who  held  the  lantern  is  a  priest, 
princess,  I    §ee,"  said   Rodomant,   glancing 
through  the  fretwork,  and  distinguishing  so 
much  by  the  altar-hght. 
"  My  priest." 

"  To  whom  you  never  confess." 
"  He  knows  the  reason."  Then  she  called 
upbn  a  name,  adding  a  few  words  besides  in 
her  own  tongue,  new  to  Rodomant,  so  rich, 
so  sonorous  and  majestic,  that  to  his  swift 
conception  it  seemed  a  language  fit  for  royal 
lips  alone.  The  figure  of  the  man,  which  had 
reached  the  sluoui  beneath  the  arclies,  staid 


106 


RUMOR. 


there ;  and  soon  steps  sounded  on  the  pave- 
ment, and  mounted  the  marble  stair. 

"  I  wonder,"  observed  Rodomant,  half  to 
himself,  "  what  he  wanted  a  lantern  for  ;  it 
is  so  light  abroad,  and  in  here,  too." 

The  princess  heard  him.  "You  need  not 
inquire,  it  is  not  your  work,"  she  said  ;  "  and 
you  may  thank  God  for  that,  even  if  you  do 
not  love  him." 

liodomant  had  no  time  to  speculate  on 
this  remark  just  then,  for  the  princess's 
priest,  her  friend,  as  she  had  called  him, 
stood  before  them.  With  his  body  he  made 
the  deepest  reverence,  but  never  raised  his 
head,  which,  as  he  approached,  was  dropped 
low  on  his  bosom,  while  his  countenance  ex- 
pressed humiliation  the  most  passionless  and 
profound,  a  willing  self-abasement  which 
would  have  touched  Rodomant's  contempt, 
had  it  appeared  on  a  face  one  shade  less 
noble  or  admirable  for  that  expression.  As 
it  was,  the  attitude  and  aspect  shamed  Rod- 
omant for  his  own  audacity  and  freedom  ; 
and  again  shame  passed  into  surprise,  as  he 
glanced  sideways  at  the  princess.  She  had 
returned  to  her  reserve  as  when  in  her  fa- 
ther's presence  she  had  gi-eeted  Rodomant  so 
coldly,  only  she  was  colder  now  ;  and  if  there 
ever  were  a  moment  when  she  could  be 
named  haughty,  it  was  that  in  which  she  in- 
troduced them  —  Rodomant  to  the  priest,  by 
name  Father  Rosuelo.  Rosuelo  bowed  to 
Rodomant  with  the  least  possible  inclination 
that  the  eye  could  detect,  still  never  raised 
his  eyes.  Then  the  princess  spoke  again  in 
her  own  tongue,  and  rather  more  at  length, 
with  rather  more  than  ever  of  authoritative 
distance ;  but  at  the  end  of  her  august  ad- 
dress she  smiled  for  Rodomant. 

"  Good  night,"  she  said  ;  "  I  have  asked 
Father  Rosuelo  to  go  to  your  rooms  with 
you  to-night  for  a  little  time,  or,  if  you  like 
it,  to  remain,  as  you  may  be  lonely  in  a  place 
so  new ;  he  is  a  delightful  companion,  I  can 
assure  you  that."  But  she  held  forth  no 
hand  this  time,  and  Rodomant,  recalling  his 
profane  familiarity,  felt  the  pulses  prick  in 
his  lips  for  shame  ;  never,  never  then  should 
he  breathe  over  that  virgin  lily  of  her  hand 
again ;  and  yet,  before  they  parted,  another 
short  scene  was  acted  through,  as  strange  as 
any  in  his  sight.  An  instant,  and  every 
trace  of  haughtiness  had  left  the  face  of  the 
piincess,  and  lowly  she  bowed  her  head, 
wliile  the  priest  that  instant  reared  himself 
his  utmost  height,  and  raised 'his  eyes  so 
suddenly  that  it  seemed  as  if  he  would  avoid 
sullying  by  a  single  glance  the  edge  of  her 
white  forehead;  then  he  held  his  hands 
above  her  golden  hair,  and  dropped  from  his 
lips  a  blessing,  as  sweet  and  rich  as  scattered 
incense,  whose  great  old  Latin  words  Rocfo- 
mant  could  interpret  from  the  masses  of  Italy 
and  mediaeval  Germany.  And  as  the  deep 
Amen  melted  from  his  solemn  utterance,  the 

Erincess  lifted  her  head,  once  more  not  hum- 
le  in  the  presence  of  a  man.  Without  look- 1 


ing  towards  either  of  her  companions  again,- 
she  called  her  page  frotr.  behind  the  organ, 
and  passed  down  stairs,  while,  through  the 
fretwork,  Rodomant  beheld  that  she  left  the 
chapel  by  the  door  at  Avhich  the  priest  —  not 
she  before  with  himself — had  entered  it  This 
would  havo  driven  his  Avonder  to  his  lips 
directly,  but  for  the  change  in  Rosuelo,  which 
he  marked,  as  his  eyes  left  the  vacancy 
her  going  had  made  else  every  where.  No 
longer  humble,  with  bowed  head  —  no  longer 
either  rapt  to  heaven  with  vision  strained 
from  earth,  but  erect,  with  a  dignity  which 
would  have  been  superb  in  a  courtier  the 
nearest  to  the  sceptred  hand ;  and  with  an 
expression  of  face  as  little  angelical  as  Rod- 
omant's, perfect  as  was  its  beauty.  It  is  very 
likely  that  his  first  full  sight  of  Rodomant 
convinced  him  that  the  least  assumption  of 
celestial  authority  over  that  mortal,  would 
only  affect  comically  his  unvenerative  nature  ; 
at  all  events,  when  he  spoke,  the  tones  were 
as  little  as  possible  pious,  though  i)olite  with 
the  same  perfection  as  his  facial  beauty. 

"  You  will  not  consider,  I  hope,  that  her 
highness's  recommendation  of  me  renders  it 
necessary  you  should  accept  my  poor  com- 
panionship ;  how  proud  too,  even,  I  should 
be  to  offer  it  —  how  far  prouder  of  your 
own." 

"  I  am  thankful,  on  the  contrary,  since  it 
pleases  you.  I  fancy,  however,  you  will 
hardly  stomach  the  task,  for  a  task  it  will  be 
—  a  long  one  I  sliould  think.  I  am  literally 
perishing  of  curiosity,  and  if  I  do  not  this 
night  obtain  some  satisfactory  clew  to  this 
maze  of  inconsistencies  that  have  put  my 
thoughts  into  a  tangle  too,  I  shall  commit 
suicide  on  the  spot  —  not  this  holy  one.  — 
For  I  suppose  death  gives  us  all  the  knoM'l- 
edge  denied  by  life  ;  —  it  ought,  in  consider- 
ation of  what  it  takes  away."  Not  a  shade 
of  disapproval  crossed  the  other's  counte- 
nance. "  But  you  all  speak  German  here  — 
it  is  strange,  difficult  as  it  is." 

"  I  believe  the  ])rince8s  and  I  are  the  only 
two,  if  I  dare  mention  her  highness  with  my- 
self. The  prince  knows  but  a  phrase  or  two. 
Still,  you  should  learn  our  language,  finer 
than  Italian  for  music,  as  it  is  more  poetical 
for  prose  — I  should  be  very  glad  to  teach 
you  at  my  leisure." 

"  Thanks ;  I  shall  teach  myself,  I  always  do. 
But  if  I  am  to  hear  any  thing  before  the  morn- 
ing, it  seems  to  me  we  should  stir.  And 
really,  sir,  though  those  grand  apartments 
are  called  mine,  I  feel  too  little  at  home  in 
them  to  take  you  there  —  it  is  you  who  must 
conduct  me." 

"  You  are  so  courteous,"  said  the  priest, 
"  that  I  fear  not  to  vex  you  by  the  confession, 
that  if  I  am  to  reply  to  any  questions  of  yours 
regarding  this  place,  or  what  you  aptly  terra 
the  inconsistencies  around  us,  it  must  not  be 
in  your  own  rooms.  Were  I  seen  to  enter 
with  you,  and  known  to  remain  longer  than 
necessary  for  the  purposes  of  my  caUing,  it 


RUMOR. 


107 


misrV't  be  reported  to  the  prince  our  master, 

and  if  lie  should  become  aware,  some  suspi- 
cion might  rest  with  you  of  being  initiated 
into  that  knowledge,  which  to  attain  and  di- 
gest here  is  to  eat  a  bitterer  fruit  than  that 
which  changed  to  despair  the  innocence  of 
our  earliest  parents  ;  not  to  speak  of  the  pos- 
sibility of  your  being  dismissed  before  you 
have  taken  your  stand  almost,  —  a  high  stand 
that  will  be,  if  we  may  beheve  one  who  never 
errs  in  precept  or  in  statement,  whatever  his 
practical  future  remains  to  be." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Rodomant,  "  a  spark  seems 
to  glimmer  in  my  bewildered  brain ;  how 
good  !  if  in  this  glow-worm  suspicion  of  mine 
my  first  mystery  should  be  cleared  from  its 
entan;.;k'ment.  Do  you  mean  a  man  in  Par- 
isinia  called  Porphyro  ?  " 

A  little  start  betrayed  some  slight  tempo- 
ral excitement  in  the  man  of  the  church, 
though  it  was  further  betrayed  —  to  the 
empty  moonlit  chapel  only  —  by  the  volcanic 
flash 'that  leaped  from  his  bright  eyes,  aside. 

"  What  other  name  than  Porphyro  should 
he  bear  ?  Man-miracle,  who,  if  he  lives  but 
to  fultil  his  own  promises,  is  the  prophet  of 
the  age,  the  only  one  whose  predictions  shall 
not  lie.  Yes,  I  mean  Porphyro,  and  he  is 
one  of  the  consistent  mysteries,  so  far  as  he 
has  yet  ])roceeded,  because  remahiing,  as  a 
mystery  should,  to  preserve  its  mysticism, 
uiirevfciiled."  Then  changing  his  tone,  he 
said,  "  Warm  as  it  is,  we  must  not  stay  all 
night,  for  were  we  found  here  none  would 
give  us  credit  for  confessions  at  such  a 
length.  I  was  going  to  ask  you  to  come  to 
my  rooms,  very  inferior  to  yours  in  all  re- 
spects ;  but  it  strikes  me  you  are  likely  to  be 
temperate  and  careless  of  luxury  as  you  are 
independent;  we  shall  at  least  be  safe  there 
from  paid  eyes  of  sentinels." 

"  1  will  go  any  where,  to  ask  you  what  I 
want  to  hear,  and  get  your  answers." 

"  Come,  then,  follow  me,"  answered  Ros- 
uelo,  "  I  do  not  Avonder ;  were  I  in  your 
place,  I  should  feel  the  same,  and  in  mine 
the  knowledge  of  what  is,  while  it  ceases  to  be 
matter  of  curiosity,  remains  a  mystery  still." 
^  The  two  men  went  down  stairs  towards 
the  door  through  which  the  princess  had 
passed  Kosuelo  taking  his  dark  lantern  from 
a  stall  where  he  had  placed  it.  Rodomant, 
intent  on  getting  out  as  soon  as  possible, 
looked  neither  to  the  one  hand  nor  the  other, 
hut  in  spite  of  himself,  he  was  attracted  to 
the  end,  so  much  and  so  directly  that  he 
passed  the  door  where  Rosuelo  staid,  and 
went  straight  on.  No  marvel ;  it  was  not 
the  stupendous  window  that  would  have 
filled  the  space  of  the  widest  arch,  nor  the 

In'iceless  pictures  on  which  genius  had  t!x- 
lausted  art  to  imagine  the  unseen,  but  the 
amazing  spectacle  seen  only  at  such  a  shrine, 
prodigy  of  human  ignorance  that  by  the  ma- 
terial would  propitiate  the  divine.  Rodo- 
mant, beneath  the  altar,  stood  statue-still, 
and  gazed,  and  gazed  uuwinkingly,  at  the 


cold,  yet  fiery  splendor.  As  if  the  hand  of 
some  giant  had  unlock&cj^.in  that  creative  soil 
the  secret  mines  of  gathef§d-4ges,  ty  all  the 
kings  of  the  whole  earth  had  come,  as  those 
of  the  East  alone  in  the  old  times  before  us 
sought  the  straw-spread  cradle  of  Humanity's 
best  Friend,  to  pour  their  ti-easuries  out 
empty  at  the  feet  of  one  they  knew  not,  yet 
adored.  Great  v..  Jsses,  each  gem  a  diamond 
glory  ;  topaz  and  amethyst  in  clusters  like 
the  grapes  without  the  walls  ;  sapphires  large 
as  the  evening  planet  strikes  on  northern  eyes, 
heaps  of  rainbow-veiHng  opal,  pearls  —  as 
though  the  sea  had  cast  up  all  its  pearls,  — 
rubies  and  carbuncles,  like  roses  blossomed 
out  of  flame ;  chains  thick  as  golden  man- 
acles, and  gyves  of  silver  ;  filagree,  to  which 
gold  wasted  had  given  a  worth  beyond  gold  ; 
lace  carved  from  ivory,  rings  each  an  amulet ; 
and  again,  ingots  upon  ingots  of  the  royal 
and  virgin  metals ;  and  last,  above  all  this 
abased  and  useless  wealth,  rose  the  stainless 
effigy  of  human  passion,  made  divine  through 
purity  —  the  idea  to  outshadow  which  in  type 
has  taxed  human  invention  to  the  a  erge  of 
madness,  and  tested  human  worship  at 
the  expense  of  man's  love  to  God,  exhibited 
in  love  towards  his  kind.  Rodomant  took 
no  long  survey ;  he  turned  quickly  from 
the  shrine  on  which  that  storm  of  riches  had 
foUen,  resting  quietly,  his  eyes  smarting  with 
the  tears  the  blinding  blaze  had  drawn  to 
them.  "  Good  Heavens  !  "  he  exclaimed  in 
his  simplest  manner,  "  how  rich  the  prince 
must  be  ! " 

"  The  prince  ?  "  said  Rosuelo,  gravelj  — 
"  the  Church.  And  this  but  a  niche  of  the 
church  as  small,  in  comparison  with  its  whole 
temporal  wealth,  as  the  least  of  the  visible 
stars  in  comparison  with  the  system  of  the 
universe." 

"  Ah  !  "  observed  Rodomant,  quaintly,  "  it 
is  a  great  thing  to  belong  to  a  church  so 
rich,  as  it  is  a  credit  to  be  one  —  even  ft  poor 
relation  —  of  a  very  wealthy  family  ;  I  under- 
stand." 

Rosuelo  made  no  answer,  but  paced  rapidly 
to  the  door,  still  open,  but  which  he  closed 
behin'',  himself  and  Rodomant.  "  Now  let 
us  }  asten,"  said  he,  and  strode  on  fast 
again. 

Again  reminded  by  the  brightness  of  the 
moon,  Rodomant  recurred  to  the  lantern, 
now  extinguished.  "  May  I,  inquire  why  it 
was  lighted  in  the  first  instance  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Oh,  certainly  —  I  had  been  in  the  dun- 
geons, darker  places  than,  I  hope,  you  evei 
saw.  Now  please  me  by  puttiiig  no  more 
questions  till  we  are  safe  —  till  I  speak  to 
you  myself." 

Rodomant  was  quieted  more  easily,  as  he 
wanted  leisure  to  inspect  the  road  they  took 
—  a  new  one  altogether,  leadhig  farther  from 
the  chapel  and  the  palace  (perhaps  half  a 
mUe)  into  what  seemed  to  him  wild  country, 
but  which  was  still  enclosed,  until  they 
reached  what  Rodomant  had  noticed  in  tha 


108 


RUMOR. 


distance  as  ..  mansion  of  sparkling  marble, 
but  which  was  a  wall  extraordinarily  lofty, 
of  pale  gray  granite,  marbled  as  it  were  by 
the  moonlight's  blaze.  No  trees  were  tall 
enough  to  overtop  this  wall,  save  here  and 
there  a  palm,  which  drooped  like  funeral 
plumes  —  a  dark  and  mournful  crown. 

"  What  place  is  behind,  in  there  ?  a  prison, 
I  suppose,  where  the  dungeons  are  ?  "  again 
asked  Rodomant. 

Rut  Rosuelo  shook  his  head,  next  minute 
stopping  at  what  looked  like  a  buttress 
sprung  from  the  wall's  huge  angle,  but  which 
proved  to  be  a  human  habitation,  how 
difficult  soever  to  name,  whether  as  vault 
above  the  ground,  or  as  jirophet's  chamber 
ill,  not  on  the  wall.  Opening  the  door  with 
a  key  fastened  to  his  girdle  by  a  cord,  he 
c  '.tered,  followed  close  by  Rodomant,  who, 
while  the  other  struck  a  light,  first  knocked 
liis  head  against  the  low  lintel,  and  then 
tumbled  over  the  step  by  which  was  the 
descent  to  the  floor  within.  Once  there,  he 
stared  all  round  —  not  a  large  circle  —  with 
fresh  amazement.  Arched  exactly  like  a 
vault,  the  furniture  thereof  was  just  such 
as  that  of  the  prophet's  chamber  ;  and  Rod- 
(uuant  had  the  fixed  idea  that  priests  wor- 
shipped images  and  gazed  on  pictures,  till 
the  quiver  of  their  own  strained  eyeballs  or 
twitch  of  lips  too  weary  of  repetition,  was 
ascribed  to  the  stone  features  or  tints  intan- 
gible of  the  canvas.  Also  he  had  heard 
of  scourges  self-apj)lied,  and  exposed,  not 
hidden ;  and  cold  crosses  on  which  Faith's 
victim  stretched  himself,  long,  night-long 
vigils.  Nothing  such  here,  for  use  or  orna- 
ment, not  a  crucifix  above  the  pallet,  narrow 
as  a  grave  ;  not  a  black-looking  volume  upon 
the  rending  eagle,  of  unplaned  wood. 

"  I>et  us  sit  down  and  sup,"  said  Rosuelo, 
as  he  placed  a  candle  in  a  metal  stand  on 
the  table,  shapeless  and  uncarven,  and  drew 
the  two  rude  stools  which  were  the  only  seats 
and  the  only  number  there  was  room  for, 
forwards.  Rodomant,  easy  as  in  his  Lon- 
don attic,  easier  than  in  saloons  he  ever  felt, 
sat  down  and  watched  the  other  with  curiosity, 
which  became  pleasure — for  whatever  made 
men  independent  of  each  other  and  the  world 
he  steadfastly  admired.  The  supper  was 
barley-bread,  served  on  wooden  platters, 
abundance  of  grapes  in  a  rough  straw- 
basket,  and  1  handful  of  cold  roasted  eggs 
laid  on  fresh  leaves  —  that  was  all,  and  all 
came  out  of  a  little  vaulted  hole  in  one  cor- 
ner, —  could  there  be  corner  where  a  room 
was  round  ?  —  which  served  for  cupboard 
and  for  library,  La«t  of  all,  before  seating  him- 
self, Rosuelo  filled  a  pitcher  of  reddish  earth 
with  water  from  a  huge  stone  basin,  which, 
as  the  corner  hole  was  library  and  cupboard, 
served  for  wine-cellar  and  toliet-mirror  as  well. 
Tlie  candle-flame,  more  liberal  in  its  revela- 
tions than  moonlight,  showed  completely  and 
fully  Rosuelo's  face.  Rodomant  again  re- 
fliai-ked  its  beauty,  in  which  the  searching 


vision  could  detect  no  flaw.  Superb  features 
of  strong  patriciai:.  type  ;  skin  bloodless  pale, 
unwrinkled  as  a  rose-leaf  freshly  plucked  ; 
grave,  deep-gray  eyes,  looking  as  black  as 
they  were  lustrous  from  the  darkness  of  the 
fringe  ;  hair  where  it  was  left,  like  threads  of 
sable  silk  —  these  traits  had  once  stamped 
him  the  handsomest  man  in  Belvidere,  and 
it  was  his  exhausting  life  which  had  given 
him  bemtty  on  chasing  mere  good  looks  away, 
as  it  was  his  intense  inward  and  constant 
struggle  with  passion  as  strong  as  he,  which 
imparted  to  him  the  melancholy  calm  that 
yet  was  least  like  the  angelical. 

"  You  eat  nothing  yourself,"  said  Rodo- 
mant, pulling  grape  after  grape  from  the 
stem. 

"  I  have  supped,"  answered  Rosuelo,  "  on 
something  sweeter  than  is  in  my  power  tc 
offer  you." 

"  You  are  a  strange  one  for  a  priest  — 
no  crosses,  nor  virgins,  nor  heads,  nor  pic- 
tures, nor  rods ;  then  you  say  you  have 
eaten,  that  does  not  look  like  fasting." 

"  My  instruments  of  torture  are  kept  in  a 
secret  place,  yet  none  the  less  inactive  — 
what  I  worship  is  also  there.  As  for  fasting, 
my  food  this  evening  was  not  food  of  men, 
but  angels  —  or  sweeter;  that  which  one 
eats  not  nor  drinks,  yet  receives  ;  which 
nourishes  not  the  body,  yet  sustains  the  life 
to  suffer  on." 

"  That  is,  you  are  a  Catholic  of  the  prin- 
cess's sort ;  she  don't  confess ;  it  is  all  s;^tV- 
ifual,  I  supi)ose,  as  my  mother  says,  though 
she  is  no  Catholic  either.  You  adhere  to 
the  principle  and  eschew  the  practice  — 
only  in  private  life,  of  course  ?  " 

""  I  am  surprised  at  nothing  you  say  ;  and 
being  something  of  a  physiognomist,  the 
very  alphabet  of  the  science  teaches  me  that 
you  are  sincere,  and  that  it  is  not  needful  to 
explain  to  you  that  secrets  are  secrets  — 
you  understand  them  so.  Otherwise  I  had 
not  brought  you  hither  — I  had  literally 
obeyed  the  princess's  commands." 

""Good,"  said  Rodomant,  "  you  are  safe, 
for  I  have  no  one  to  whom  to  repeat  a 
secret ;  I  knew  a  lady  once,  I  might  have 
told,  but  she  is  as  good  as  dead  to  me,  for  I 
have  killed  her  out  of  my  thoughts,  and  a 
cold  grave  she  has  of  it  in  my  memory. 
But,  I  must  ask,  do  you  prescribe  this  spir- 
itual fulfilment  of  the  delegated  orders 
of  papa  in  Rome,  for  all  your  sons  and 
daughters,  that  you  follow  yourself — and 
prescribe,  I  suppose,  for  the  highest  of  your 
congregation,  unless  she  adopts  it  of  her 
own  accord  ?  " 

"  I  ordain  obedience  implicit,  absolute, 
unquestioning,  to  every  ordinance  great  or 
simple,  public  or  secret ;  from  every  one 
except  myself,  with  whom  I  am  concerned, 
saving  only  in  the  case  you  mentioned  last. 
Obedience  to  me,  as  if  to  the  sovereign  of 
the  church ;  yet  to  whom,  as  to  all  here,  I 
seem  as  though  I  too  obeyed,  more  rigidly 


RUMOR. 


109 


than  all.     Yet   remember,  none   know   me, 

none  follow  nie  hither,  and  you  the  first  I 
have  admitted,  will  not  take  advantage  of 
my  confidence." 

""  Never,  when  it  is  made  mine.  But 
are  you  enforced  —  actually  self-enforced 
to  lead  a  life  all  lies  —  do  you  enjoy  deceiv- 
ing others  ?  It  cannot  be  for  gain's  sake, 
as  I  sec  you  here." 

"  I  deceive  no  one  ;  what  is  prescribed  is 
right  —  for  those  it  suits,  those  whom  it 
relieves,  those  whom  it  holds  in  check  from 
the  clutches  of  despair.  Some  constitutions, 
drugged  too  deeply,  cease  to  respond  to 
medicines  ;  there  have  been  those  who  fed 
on  poisons,  yet  could  not  find  death  through 
them.  So  I,  I  have  survived  forms  —  rites 
touch  me  like  a  dead  man's  finger.  But  in 
ihis  land  all  who  are  not  born  villains,  are 
kept  in  childhood  all  their  lives  —  childhood 
as  to  ignorance,  not  in  the  innocence  of  joy. 
The  former  —  those  Avho  will  not  believe,  be- 
cause they  dare  not,  either  in  forms  or  the 
Deity  which  forms  assume  to  reach,  I  make 
tremble  ;  they  can  only  be  fiiscinated  from 
crime  by  fear,  fear  of  the  wrath  to  come. 
But  the  "rest,  the  children,  swathed  in  bands 
of  ojipression,  iron-fettered,  under  pretence 
of  helping  them  to  run  alone,  blind-folded, 
for  fear  the  light  should  let  them  see  too 
nuich  :  these,  if  they  found  or  fancied  Di- 
vinity in  a  pebble  hammered  from  a  rock,  I 
would  instruct  to  kiss  the  stone  and  keep  it 
for  a  chiu-m  within  their  breasts.  Men  want 
consolation  every  where,  so  all  my  brethren 
tell  me  —  of  every  church;  that  they  languish 
without  it  in  this  age  more  than  any  other  ; 
how  then  must  it  be  here,  a  corner  of  the 
earth  wliich  God  made  most  beautiful,  like 
old  Jerusalem,  only  to  forsake  it." 

"Hush  —  for  old  Jerusalem,  you  know 
little  about  that.  Why  her  own  words  are 
these,  old  as  her  hills,  and  written  on  the 
hearts  of  all  her  children.  '  The  tabernacle 
of  God  is  now  with  every  nation.  Worship 
no  more  towards  Jerusalem,  for  in  the  heart 
of  evei'y  man  is  henceforth  the  Holy  of 
Holies.'  You  will  wonder  how  I — not  being 
a  Jew  of  course  myself,  remember  such 
words.  A  lady  told  them  to  me  —  a  lady 
whom  I  have  forgotten  ;  but  I  did  not  forget 
those  words,  they  not  being  her  own.  And 
I  was  reminded  of  them  by  something  the 
])rincess  said,  only  to  her  I  dared  not  repeat 
them." 

"  T  know  but  one  heart  in  which  is  the 
Holiest  of  Holies,"  said  Rosuelo,  "  and  that 
is  hers.  In  our  hearts  here  is  no  Deity  — 
neither  the  King  of  Heaven,  nor  the  idea 
1  ">yal  which,  if  pure,  in  some  sort  symbolizes 
Him  on  earth,  and  so  incites  men  to  moral- 
ity and  greatness,  as  the  King  Divine  invites 
to  love  and  worship.  Our  hearts  are  all  empty, 
but  it  is  not  so  easy  to  rid  men  of  busy  brains ; 
and  out  of  busy  brains,  with  no  hearts  to 
govern  and  guide  them  —  nothing  but  empty 
husks  —  what  may  not  come  ?  " 


"I  do  not  know  nor  understand  ;  but  in 
most  countries,  whatever  commou  peo])lo 
suffer,  great  people  are  exempt.  Here  the 
contrary  is  the  case." 

"  Not  at  all  —  at  the  end,  we  wait  for 
that." 

"  I  never  heard  nor  read  any  thing  particu- 
lar about  this  country.  When  I  told  people 
I  was  coming,  all  they  said  was,  •  What  a  fine 
climate  —  how  rich  a  princedom,  the  most 
ancient  dynasty  of  Europe.  For  a  man  to 
go  there  gives  him  style  —  for  an  artist.' 
(being  below  a  man,  I  know  not  in  what 
degree,)  '  for  an  artist  to  get  to  Court,  is  to 
obtain  credit  with  all  the  world,  so  that  he 
may  remain  idle  ever  afterwards,'  Nor  have 
I  ever  found  its  place  in  history — but  then  I 
never  read  any  in  our  library  at  Gottsend,  ex- 
cept '  Jo<ephus '  and  the  '  Thirty  Years'  War.' " 

"  History  of  the  past  is  only  veiled  truth, 
the  veil  is  torn  here  and  there,  but  gener- 
ally dim  enough  to  deceive  the  keenest  stu- 
dent. And  as  for  the  histories  of  the  day 
contained  in  ne.wspapers,  they  dare  not  re- 
veal what  they  cannot  veil,  so  they  leave  it 
to  proclaim  itself."    • 

"Why  dare  not?" 

"  Because  news])apers  feed  thousands  — 
with  bread,  not  news  though  the  bread  for 
each  may  be  as  scant  as  the  truth,  and  as 
much  adulterated." 

"  In  God's  name,  pester  me  no  longer  with 
exi)lanations  that  tend  to  no  given  point. 
Tell  me  the  truth  you  knoxo,  however  little 
there  is  of  it,  which  concerns  this  land,  little 
tract  as  it  looked  on  the  map  which  hung  in 
our  Town-hall,  a  narrow  strip,  and  an  island, 
with  the  sea  between  them." 

"  As  for  the  truth,  that  is  yet  veiled,  and 
though  the  veil  must  be  rent,  it  may  not  be 
in  our  time.  There  is  one  man,  who  7nay 
know,  may  foresee  —  Porphyro  —  for  I  some- 
times think  he  has  been  baptized  with  pro- 
phetic vision,  and  if  so,  his  brain  is  vast  as 
well  as  clear  enough  to  embrace  the  future 
of  all  castes  and  countries  on  the  globe. 
However,  he  confides  in  no  man,  though  I 
l)elieve  he  has  confided  in  one  woman  to  a 
certain  extent,  as  far  as  he  deems  her  capa- 
ble of  comprehension.  Still,  this  much  is 
true,  if  it  be  true  that  thunder  and  lightning 
are  born  in  the  mixing  of  two  clouds  —  we 
are  doomed ;  and  my  prayers  begin  and 
end,  nay,  but  contain  the  changeless  yearn- 
ing :  '  Master  of  the  earth,  let  it  be  soo7i,  so 
dreadful  is  the  time  till  then,  so  mighty  in 
its  misery ' " 

"  I  suppose  the  princess  is  safe,  whatever 
hapjiens,  nor  does  she  look  like  one  to  fear 
for  herself.  Yet  your  voice  and  your  words 
reminded  me  of  hers  when  she  upbraided  me 
to-night  for  not  loving,  as  she  called  it,  as 
well  as  worshipping  the  Supreme." 

"  You  have  no  such  excuse  as  I,"  she  said, 
"  for  you  have  not  seen  the  things  I  hava 
seen,  you  know  not  the  secrets  with  which  \ 
groan." 


110 


RUMOR. 


"  These  were  l.er  very  words,  strange  ones 
for  a  princess,  I  thought,  and  her  voice  was 
more  awful  than  they." 

"  Did  she  say  so  ?  Alas  !  for  her  suffer- 
ings, if  that  heart  is  driven  to  confess  them 
to  a  stranger."  Rosuelo's  voice  sank  low, 
and  trembled,  his  hand,  clinched  upon  the 
table,  trembled  too  ;  but  he  only  gave  way 
like  a  highly-tempered  sword  bent  by  the 
hand,  returning  in  an  instant  to  its  form, 
direct  and  keen.  "  As  for  her,  she  suffers 
because  she  is  —  what  all  who  know  her 
know  —  because  she  is  herself.  That  girl 
would  die  on  a  cross  to  save  one  blameless 
person  from  torture,  or  one  soul  from  sin. 
I  used  to  think  in  my  idle  days,  and  was 
wrongly  taught,  that  only  sin  is  sorrow ; 
false  that,  for  the  being  the  most  heavenly, 
yet  most  human  on  the  bad  earth  now, 
would  be  crushed  by  sorrow,  if  it  were  not  | 
for  the  love  which  sustains  her  —  a  love 
which  embraces  the  whole  world,  but  chiefly  ' 
those  who  in  it  are  made  her  own  by  suffer- 

^"e-"  .  .  i 

"  Oh.  I  will  believe  all  that,  and  take  for 

granted  all  the  panegyrics  which,  either  from 

natural  gratitude  or  ecclesiastical  etiquette,  I 

you  may  desire  to  pronounce ;  but  you  have  i 

given  me  no  clew  yet,  or  if  you   put  it  into 

my  hand  I  dropped  it  —  very  careless  ;  but 

your  fine  words  bewildered  me,  simple  as  I 

am,  a  layman,  too  —  if  an  artist  dares  claim 

that   distinction   in  common  with   men  not 

artists.    What  is  the  matter  with  the  people 

and     the    prince  —  for    I     suppose    he    is 

included  —  and    wliy    are     there    secrets  ? 

Above  all,  why  should  the  jn-incess  meddle 

in  them?" 

"  Is  it  possible  that  you  never  took  notice 
of  passing  events  in  Parisinia  ?  That  you 
knew  nothing  of  its  mad-like  progression  in 
politics  ?  That  you  heard  nothing  of  the 
parties  men  have  made  themselves  into,  each 
against  each,  and  all  against  the  throne  ?  " 

"I  never  heard  a  word  —  at  least,  there 
was  one  thing  I  knew,  that  men  were  very 
often  mistaken  for  other  men  and  dragged 
to  prison  without  being  first  condemned.  As 
for  the  throne,  it  is  odd,  with  all  against  it; 
how  calm  and  smiling  are  the  king  and 
queen !  I  saw  them,  they  sent  for  me." 
Rodomant  felt  complacent,  even  at  their 
ghosts,  and  the  ghost  of  that  fact,  in  memory. 

"  Ah  !  "  went, on  Rosuelo,  "  I  might  have 
known  your  ignorance  of  the  state  of  things, 
for  Porphyro  said  of  you,  in  his  letter  to  the 
princess,  that  you  were  a  '  rigid  art-recluse, 
and  the  only  person  he  >ver  knew  who  ren- 
dered a  mean  pursuit  sublime.'  " 

"  He  said  that,  did  he  ?  I  wish  I  had 
known  it." 

"  You  would  not  have  come,  I  sup])ose  ; 
your  ])ride  would  have  detained  you  there." 

"  Ah  !  but  I  am  afraid  I  should,  yet  I  know 
scarcely  why  I  came  ;  it  was  not  to  see  the 
original  of  all  those  i)ictures,  for  I  did  not 
know  they  were  of  the  princess  j  nor  was  it 


because  ofAdelaida  —  I  did  not  know  it 
was  her  name  ;  nor  because  I  wanted  money, 
for  I  find  I  can  make  that  any  where. 

"  I  believe,"  said  Rosuelo,  calmly,  "  that 
you  came  just  because  Porphyro  advised  you 
to  come.  I  never  knew  any  one  resist  the 
slightest  suggestion  of  his  ;  I  was  going  to 
say  except  myself,  but  I  have  never  had  the 
ojiportunity.  I  am  to  him  but  as  one  of  the 
tapers  on  the  altar,  or  one  bead  of  tlii'^ 
rosary  of  mine  —  a  small  item  of  Church 
property  contributing  towards  its  furniture  a 
mite." 

"  A  very  large,  and  a  very  magnificent 
mite,"  cried  Rodomant,  laughing ;  then 
plunging  his  hands  into  his  hair,  and  entan- 
gling it  hopelessly,  "my  thoughts  are  not 
only  knotted  and  twisted,  but  whirling 
round ;  yet,  hitherto,  all  the  things  I  wanted 
to  know  have  turned  out  as  little  supernat- 
ural as  Porphyro,  and  not  one  is,  despite 
his  commonplace  platitude,  so  great  a  mys- 
tery ;  ghosts,  changelings,  and  the  new  men 
with  tails  just  discovered  in  Africa,  are  open 
revelations,  and  real,  compared  with  him. 
Therefore,  in  case  I  go  mad  before  the  end 
of  my  questions,  ])ray  tell  me  in  a  word  who 
is  Porphyro.  I  tried  to  find  that  out.  A 
man  was  just  telling  me  when  he  was  taken 
to  prison  out  of  the  street.  And  as  for  Por- 
])hyro  himself,  you  might  as  well  try  to 
bleed  a  block  of  marble." 

"  Every  thing  else,  save  what  is  under  seal 
of  my  conscience  for  others ;  —  all  else  I  will 
tell  you  gladly,  but  not  that ;  Porphyro'a 
pretensions  /  will  not  explain,  it  would  not 
be  just.  If  you  are  honored  with  another 
private  interview  with  the  princess,  ask  her 
—  she  may  condescend  to  tell  you  ;  —  she 
alone  knows,  or  asserts  that  her  opinion  is 
correct  and  lucid." 

"  Ah !  you  hate  him  !  I  hear  it  in  your 
voice.  Well,  if  I  must  wait  I  must,  but  it  is 
a  curious  subject  for  her  contemplation  —  so 
ugly  a  being,  she  might  as  well  thhdv  of 
me  !  "  with  a  sort  of  grim  glee. 

"  But  you  sjioke  of  parties  all  hating  the 
throne  in  Parisinia.  I  cannot  see  the  con- 
nection between  them  and  Belvidere,  or  the 
secrets  under  which  you  and  the  princess 
groan,  for  they  seem  to  affect  i/on  as  dee])ly." 

"  The  only  connection  between  them  lies 
in  the  universal  European  anarchy  whicii 
is  likely  to  result  from  a  special  outbreak  in 
Parisinia  —  for  in  all  cases  of  revolution,  in 
modern  times.  Iris  has  stiuck  the  key-nnte. 
Any  civil  panic  annihilating  monarchy  there 
would  communicate  itself  to  all  those  Italian 
and  German  provinces  whose  wrongs  are 
smouldering,  like  covered  fu-e,  which,  for 
want  of  air,  seems  only  harmless  smoke. 
Once  kindled,  the  great  flame-contagion 
would  roll  on  steadily,  and  take  us  in  its 
course  ;  for  wrongs  so  mighty,  yet  condensed 
into  so  small  a  space,  would  ignite  more 
easily  than  all.  Those  are  our  secrets,  yet 
known  to  thousands,  and  we  dare  not  avow 


RUMOR. 


in 


them  for  their  sakes,  we,  the  minority,  who 
could  do  nothing-  for  them  by  ourselves,  save 
to  heap  up  higher  their  earthly  hells  of  tor- 
ment —  did  ice  complain,  who  have  no 
power  to  save.  These  are  our  secrets  ;  and 
though  your  ears  shall  not  deteet  in  the 
stillness  round  us,  when  we  hold  our  speech, 
one  zephyr's  flutter,  one  nightingale's  low 
note  in  all  the  air ;  though  sound  seems 
quenched  with  weariness  in  the  moonlight 
whose  white  Avings  cover  us ;  yet  I  tell  you  I 
hear,  not  fancy,  but  hear  groans  indistin- 
guishable, which  have  sunk  into  my  brain, — 
s!u-ieks  wrung  clear  from  agony  that  have 
cloven  my  heart  and  entered,  —  sobs  that 
crushed  hiwards  by  endurance  of  thousands, 
seemed  crushed  into  my  bosom  too,  —  and 
above  all,  the  surging  of  a  sea  made  of  mil- 
lion times  a  million  tears — not  drops,  but 
waters,  seems  beating  endlessly  beneath  my 
feet.  I  tell  you,  stranger  as  you  are  to  mir- 
acles in  wrong  and  woe,  that  all  these  sounds 
1  hear,  distinct  as  if  trumpets  were  blown,  or 
thunders  rattled  across  the  midnight.  And, 
victims  as  we  are,  we  who  suffer  and  who 
love,  we  yet  have  this  proof,  that  God  afflicts 
through  man  ;  —  for  one  higher  than  an  an- 
gel, yet  lowlier  than  all  the  upstart  women 
of  the  earth  besides,  weeps  for  us,  would  die 
for  us — but  that  she  saves  herself  for  us 
instead ! " 

Rosuelo  stood  up,  as  though  he  would 
pace  his  cell,  then  sank  down  again,  for  in 
twelve  feet  of  room  across  its  circle  where 
was  there  room  to  turn  ?  He  wiped  with  an 
end  of  his  serge  frock,  great  pearls  of  sweat 
from  his  face,  that  from  its  whiteness  had 
furmed  there  indetectibly ;  the  only  tears  he 
ever  deigned,  or  dared,  for  fear  of  losing  his 
control,  to  shed,  llodomant  surveyed  him 
with  a  pity  none  the  less  deep  because  it  was 
still  thwarted  by  a  curiosity  roused  almost 
to  desperation  by  his  words,  thrilling  and 
full  of  meaning,  yet  obscure  as  wander- 
ing ^olian  harmonies,  in  which  the  Art- 
trained  musician  delighted  not.  But  the 
pity  overcame,  and  as  the  curiosity  sank  sec- 
ondary, a  self-convicted  knowledge  dawned 
—  often  the  case,  when  men  of  high  intelli- 
gence are  cast  upon  that  alone, 

"  You  mean,  I  suppose,"  said  he,  after 
musing  a  minute,  and  creating  and  destroy- 
ing in  that  minute  as  many  theories  of  pop- 
ular adversity  as  Malthusians  would  have 
invented  in  a  millennium.  "  I  suppose  you 
just  mean,  that  this  Prince  Belvidere  is  a 
tyrant,  a  person  like  those  of  ancient  his- 
tory, who  became  the  foundations  for  the 
giants  and  ogres  who  ate  little  children  — 
you  called  the  most  part  of  the  peo])le  chil- 
dren, I  remember.  Poor  sweet  princess,  I 
little  thought  thee  rudely  housed  and  hardly 
loved,  my  Adelai'da.  No  disloyalty  there, 
for  the  princess  of  the  song  is  mine  ;  I  always 
wondered  at  her  loveliness  —  no  wonder 
noM-,  prophets  only  hint  at  truth  in  proph- 
ec).       Rosuelo   stared   at   Kodoniant,  who, 


since  he  recalled  the  memory  ol  Ms  "irgin 
song,  the  sweetest  ever  invented  or  sung  by 
man,  had  dropped  his  voice,  as  though  he 
addressed  a  fairy  up  his  coat  sleeve.  The 
priest  heard  only  the  allusion  to  the  prince, 
and  afterwards  a  vague  mutterance  ;  expect- 
ing some  result,  he  waited,  but  none  came. 

"  A  tyrant ! "  said  Rosuelo,  suddenly, 
steadying  his  voice  as  it  were  to  pronounce 
the  hated  word  more  perfectly.  "  To  call 
him  tyrant,  is  to  name  a  tiger  a  turtle-dove, 
or  a  wolf  a  lamb  dro])ped  white  upon  the 
grass.  Tyrants  are  ever  strong,  but  the  best 
of  them  have  been  brave,  the  worst  of  them 
have  dared  to  threaten  by  word  of  mouth  ; 
not  bullied  through  mouthpieces  for  fear  of 
the  bow  drawn  at  a  venture  piercing  through 
the  smallest  loop-hole.  The  emperor-cle- 
mon  of  old  Rome  broke  flies  upon  his  finger 
nails  for  pastime,  but  the  prince  of  this  Par- 
adise on  earth  breaks  men  upon  the  wheel 
in  earnest,  out  of  his  own  sight,  and  the 
tales  of  their  torments  are  his  romances  and 
his  poems  —  not  that  he  confines  himself  to 
one  phase  of  torture,  there  is  no  monotony 
in  his  revenge  on  innocence  —  and  surely 
Freedom  must  have  the  wings  of  an  angel, 
not  a  bird,  for  he  cannot  crush  it,  though  he 
is  crushing  it  forever  —  it  is  like  seed  scat- 
tered by  the  wind  on  plumes  of  down,  tram- 
pled into  the  ground  it  dies  —  to  rise  again, 
nor  are  the  harvests  few  nor  far  between, 
only  as  yet,  they  are  crushed  as  easily  as  the 
germ  that  gave  them  birth." 

Rodomant,  perceiving  that  even  his  com- 
panion's earnestness  made  him  drift  from 
the  point,  observed  with  his  peculiar  quaint- 
ness,  "  Why  don't  they  kill  him  ?  such 
things  have  been  and  are  justifiable.  Jael 
killed  Sisera,  and  was  praised  for  it  in  the 
Bible  ;  a  Frenchwoman  stabbed  one  of  the 
bad  leaders  in  the  Revolution," — but  here 
he  paused  ;  unluckily  for  his  allusions,  they 
were  both  feminine,  and  recalled  the  princess 
—  could  he  fancy  her  a  murderess  —  of  her 
father,  who,  whatever  he  was,  had  given  her 
to  the  world  ?  It  was  a  depth  he  could  not 
fathom,  and  cared  not  to  look  down.  "  Why 
do  the  people  let  him  live  ? "  at  last  he 
added,  endeavoring  mentally  to  lose  sight  of 
the  ideal  parricide  that  had  crossed  his 
thoughts. 

"  Have  not  swords  leaped  from  many  a 
scabbard,  and  balls  whistled  in  scores  along 
the  wind,  all  directed  at  his  breast  ?  none 
touching  the  vital  inch,  which,  invaded, 
would  rid  the  world  ?  —  is  it  that  the  Thing 
has  no  heart  —  is  actually  not  mortal,  but 
devil-born  2  Sometimes,  in  my  wildest  mo- 
ments, I  fear  so.  But  seriously,  the  people 
brood  eternally  over  the  means  of  his  de- 
struction, and  therein  lurks  their  own.  But 
see,  it  is  just  that  fixed  idea  and  hope  of 
theirs  which  ruins  the  innocent  with  the 
guilty;  those  who  only  conform  to,  with  those 
who  project,  the  intention.  Spies,  planted 
every  where,   thick  —  yet   unnoticeable    ua 


il2 


RUMOR. 


summer  insects,  carry  each  word,  each  ges- 
luie  or  grimace  of  disafl'ection,  to  those 
who  guard  the  throne  ;  the  sun  sets  not  be- 
fore they  wlio  wliispered,  or  looked,  or 
shrugged,  strew  the  bottoms  of  the  dun- 
geons. Not  only  so,  however.  Among  men 
who  aspire  to  domestic  ties  in  life,  it  is  a 
proverb  that  love's  raptures  are  too  sacred 
to  be  expressed  —  as  a  priest,  to  whom  love 
is  forbidden,  my  sacred  theme  is  agony. 
.  .  .  Why  do  they  not  kill  him  ?  How, 
except  on  few  and  rare  occasions,  a  state- 
procession,  a  solemn  airing,  a  farce  of  M-or- 
shipping  in  public,  can  they  see  him,  or  be 
near  enough  even  to  breathe  '.death'  in  his 
farthest  courtier's  ear  ?  And  fewer  and 
rarer  those  occasions  the  longer  he  endures. 
His  palace  is  a  prison,  his  courtiers  armed 
for  him  (are  they  not  also  armed  to  protect 
themselves,  their  wealth,  their  lusts,  their 
vices?)  —  white  as  pure  innocence  beside 
the  palest  of  his  crimes.  His  servants  are 
soldiers,  bound  by  bribe  instead  of  honor  ; 
see  how  they  creep,  rank  after  rank,  up  to 
his  house ;  they  besiege,  in  order  to  protect 
it.  Mailed  all  over  but  at  the  mouth,  his 
guards  keep  his  golden  gates,  and  stretch 
ihence  in  one  long  iron,  yet  jjulsating  chain, 
up  to  his  chamber-door.  His  bed  bristles 
with  weapons  ;  his  pillow  covers  im])leme..ts 
of  destruction.  For  the  sole  remaining  dan- 
ger (poison)  every  cup  he  fills  is  half- 
emptied  before  he  tastes  it,  and  each  plate 
lie  fills  is  shared." 

"  How  can  it  be  ?  "  asked  Rodomant,  half 
to  himself,  "  for  even  bad  kings  are  not  often 
cowards.  How  grows,  or  whence  comes,  a 
character  so  unnatural,  so  unsuited  to  such  a 
dignity  ?  that  is  stranger  than  that  being 
born  to  his  place,  he  should  resolve  to  keep 
it." 

"  Not  strange  to  those  who  read  the  clear- 
est and  most  obvious,  most  inviting  of  na- 
ture's secrets,  yet  which,  alas,  none  concerned 
in  them  ever  will  read,  or  if  they  are  forced 
to  perceive,  will  confess.  As  intermarriages 
of  weak  and  faulty  families,  repeated  from 
generation  to  generation,  to  gain  or  to  con- 
serve wealth,  power,  or  to  seal  ambition  ;  as 
such  unions  stamp  accidental  defect  or  wick- 
edness as  special  by  reproduction,  so,  in 
progiJess  of  time,  they  cease  their  speciality, 
and  becoming  hereditary,  are  the  fact,  a 
double  evil  —  disease  tr  madness  ;  scrofula 
of  the  blood  or  of  the  brain,  coexistent, 
with  scarcely  an  exception  ;  but  scarcely  co- 
active,  that  is,  if  the  brain  is  actively  af- 
fected, the  health  is  seldom  externally  so  ;  if 
the  body  is  preyed  upon,  the  brain  is  gen- 
erally passive.  The  former  is  the  case  of 
the  Prince." 

"  Good  heavens,  what  a  web  of  words, 
but  for  the  last,  I  should  have  had  no  hint, 
for  your  allusion  to  families  and  marriages 
plunged  me  into  double  mysticism.  Never 
call  German  mystical  again.  But  do  I  un- 
derstand you  to  say  the  brain  of  the  Prince 


is  affected,  not  his  health ;  if  he  is  insan^j, 
then  where  are  his  crimes  ?  how  can  he  be 
responsible  ?  " 

"  It  is  a  doctrine  as  mischievous  as  ab- 
surd," said  Rosuelo,  coolly,  "  and  all  the 
more  fallacious  because  it  is  popular,  to  ex- 
cuse crimes  committed  by  a  madman,  on  the 
plea,  that  non-responsible,  he  is  therefore 
innocent.  None  but  a  bad  man,  gone  mad, 
ever  conceives  or  commits  crimes  ;  it  is  the 
test  of  a  man's  character,  what  he  does, 
says,  feels,  when  control  is  lifted  from  him 

—  in  sleep,  delirium,  drunkenness,  dementia. 
Thousands  of  the  good  and  innocent,  lambs 
bearing  the  sins  of  their  forefathers,  are  sac- 
rifices to  that  form,  the  most  terrible  of 
Heaven's  retribution,  wrought  in  man  on 
earth  ;  forever  in  our  thoughts  should  such 
be  set  aside,  and  between  them  and  the  bad 
in  whom  God  suspends  volition  (the  true 
cause  of  madness)  let  there  be  a  line  drawn, 
defined  as  between  blackness  and  the  noon- 
day. Harmless  they,  sacred  in  their  delu- 
sions, their  fancies,  their  reveries  ;  holy,  as 
the  sage  among  savages  used  to  denote 
them,  wiiether  wild  or  calm  ;  susceptible  of 
elevation  and  improvement,  or  doomed  to 
perpetual  dwarf-hood  of  the  faculties,  by  an 
atony  of  the  mind's  material." 

"  Heaven  help  me  ! "  said  Rodomant,  "  but 
not  being,  nor  inclined  to  become,  a  physi- 
cian or  pathologist,  is  that  the  term  ?  —  I 
rather  prefer  facts  to  explanations.  If  the 
Prince  is  mad,  and  your  dogma  holds,  that 
intermarriages  perpetuate  accidental  fates, 
how  came  he  so  ?  Cannot  kings  find  mates 
in  the  many  royal  dynasties  besides  their 
own  ?  " 

"  Not  where  such  wealth,  such  false  yet 
fast  tenures  of  state  and  superstition,  such 
arrogance  and  power,  such  giant  strength 
and  monstrous  weakness,  have  held  each 
other  together  so  long ;  bound  by  blood,  the 
strongest  of  all  amalgams,  which  losing  its 
virtue,  changes  affection  into  selfishness  — 
decomposes  it,  like  a  body  beneath  the  earth, 
just  holding  together  for  want  of  air,  but 
which  once  exhumed,  mixes  in  a  moment 
with  the  common  dust.  Such  is  the  doom 
of  all  dynasties  which  endure  through  selfish- 
ness and  pride  only  —  the  air  kept  out,  or 
truth  kept  from  contact  with  them,  they  en- 
Joy  a  living  death,  and  blight  all  things,  all 
persons  within  their  spell,  with  breathless 
but  not  harmless  terror.  The  rent  once 
made,  whether  by  the  daring  many,  or  the 
dauntless  one  ;  truth  once  forced  inwards  at 
the  breach,  and  no  need  for  bloodshed  :  tlie 
skeleton  clothed  in  strength  has  crumbled, 
the  spell  is  scattered  to  annihilation." 

"  It  strikes  me,"  said  Rodomant,  Avho  was 
not  struck  so  much  as  amused  by  this  tirade 

—  as,  indeed,  the  inexperienced  in  physiol- 
ogy—  key  to  history's  cypher  —  ever  are  at 
the  fragments  of  wild  theories  which  are  all 
its  votaries  have  time  to  gather  in  a  single 
lifetime.     "  It  strikes  me  as  strange  after  all 


HUMOR. 


113 


these  horrors,  tonglomerate  and  actual,  that 
such  a  person  as  the  princess  should  exist  — 
of  royal  blood.  If  what  j'ou  assert  be  true, 
she  must  be  false  to  nature." 

"  Not  the  least ;  her  existence  is  a  truth 
of  nature's  in  itself,  as  pure  and  perfect  as  a 
flower,  withal  as  simple.  The  princess's 
mother  was  not  of  royal  blood  —  and  that 
one  fact  in  her  father's  career,  his  marriage, 
seems  in  its  result  to  favor  the  celestial  su- 
perstition that  there  are  human  beings  ap- 
pointed now  and  then  to  embody  angels  — 
spirits  albeit  chained  to  clay,  that  di'op  bless- 
ings where  they  move  and  breathe  ;  that  rob 
curses  of  their  evil  charm  ;  that  where  they 
cannot  save,  console  not  with  charity  but 
love ;  whose  sympathy  lends  sweetness  to 
the  cup  of  death,  and  shares  its  bitterness. 
Such  is  the  princess;  —  but  Avhat  besides? 
Scarcely  should  I  tell  you,  if  I  could,  for 
who  daies  to  think,  to  dream  of  her,  as  of  a 
woman  ?  " 

"  Except  that  you  have  been  dwelling  on 
her  womanly  character  only  :  the  brow  wear- 
ing the  crown  cannot  stoop  or  the  crown  will 
fall.  If  her  mother  was  not  of  royal  blood, 
Fo\v  came  it  to  pass  that  her  father  married 
her  ?  —  why  was  he  allowed  ?  " 

"  He  was  not  allowed  nor  disallowed.  Al- 
ready the  dynasty  is  so  near  decay  that  those 
who,  supporting  it,  are  supported  by  it,  dare 
not  rouse  themselves,  nor  stir  one  finger  to 
resist  a  whim  of  the  head.  The  subtlest 
movement  or  division  among  them  miglit 
hasten  tlie  crisis  they  abhor  to  contemplate. 
The  marriage  of  the  Prince  was  a  whim  ;  yet 
if  Heaven  could  spare  one  hope  for  him,  its 
result  might  seem  such ;  at  least,  an  atone- 
ment to  the  people  —  and  in  her  person  a 
gift,  a  sign  from  Heaven.  Those  whom  the 
Prince  tortures,  condemns  unheard,  dooms 
to  ignorance  and  fear  alone  for  life,  all  call 
her  their  child,  not  his  —  the  people's  child  ; 
all  stretch  to  her  their  hands,  at  her  feet 
would  cast  their  hearts ;  she  might  tread 
upon  their  necks." 

Rodomant,  in  his  wise  simplicity,  felt  not 
so  sure  of  this,  even  on  his  brief  acquaint- 
ance with  the  princess  and  her  future  sub- 
jects. 

"  Stilts  again,"  was  his  remark.  "  Pray 
go  on  with  the  story  ;  bring  it  down  to  the 
level  of  my  intelligence.  His  marriage  was 
a  whim  —  what  then  ?  " 

"  I  should  have  told  you  that  the  princess 
is  the  child  —  the  only  one  of  his  second 
marriage.  His  first,  with  a  cousin  of  the 
nearest  affinity,  was  fruitless  of  a  son,  and 
all  the  daughters  died  as  infants.  There  can 
he  little  doul)t  he  frightened  his  wife,  feeble 
in  body  and  in  mind,  to  death  —  for  it  is 
amazing  how  long  luxury  and  ease  will  re- 
tain the  faintest  life  in  existence  —  th.re  is 
nothing  to  fret  the  thread.  And  the  first 
princess  died  young.  Our  princess's  mother 
was,  though  not  royal,  of  noble  hlood,  mixed 
with  that  of  a  fair  race  much  fairer  than  this 
Id 


which  peoples  Belvldere,  though  of  frater- 
nity with  that  too,  in  the  Iieginning  —  farther 
back  than  pedigrees  are  traced.  Under  the 
snow-crowns  and  lucid  skies  of  Caucasus, 
the  beauty  was  first-born  from  light  and 
cradled,  which  gave  to  the  mother  of  our 
royal  angel  her  sun-touched  hair  and 
heaven-colored  eyes.  She  was  almost  as 
fair  as  her  child,  almost  as  holy,  in  all  save 
the  weakness,  and  that  rather  of  head  than 
heart,  which  allowed  her  to  marry  him.  He 
married  her  to  possess  her,  and  possessing, 
cast  her  from  him  like  a  weed.  A  weed  may 
flourish  on  a  dunghill,  but  not  a  flower, 
whose  seed  first  fell  from  heaven.  So, 
flower-like,  she  dropped  a  seed  and  died. 
When  first  insulted  by  the  Prince,  she  fled 
to  the  only  dwelling  not  closed  to  her  by 
him,  the  only  gates  not  guarded,  opened  wide 
to  welcome  her  ;  she  found  an  asylum  where 
safety  was  purchased  by  purity,  and  assured 
l)y  weakness  ;  the  nearest  house  kept  sacred 
by  the  Church  to  women. 

"  Oh,  a  nunnery  —  is  there  one  near  ?  The 
Prince  is  superstitious  then  ?  " 

"  What  you  call  so  —  and  what  perhaps  I 
think  so,  but  may  not  say.  The  Convent 
of  the  Weeping  Sisters  lies  within  the  wall 
of  which  that  wall "  —  pointing  with  his 
finger  —  "  is  part.  You  asked  me  what  it 
was  this  evening,  at  a  moment  when  it  was 
imjjrudent  to  speak,  therefore  I  did  not 
reply.  Yes,  in  that  house  the  mother  died 
—  in  that  house  the  princess  was  born,  and 
there  every  night  she  sleeps.  Passes  in  at  the 
gate  a  royal  maiden,  lies  down  a  sister  on  a 
bed  scarcely  softer  than  my  own,  and  rising 
in  the  morning  still  a  sister,  she  wears  the 
robes  of  the  order  till  after  noon — then 
drops  them,  and  is  until  the  evening  again, 
a  king's  daughter." 

"  That  is  all  very  romantic,  and  like  a 
girl,"  observed  Rodomant,  "  but  it  seems  to 
me  that  there  is  a  waste  of  time  —  and  a 
sentiniental  air  —  in  that.  I  should  prefer 
the  princess,  that  is,  respect  her  more,  if  she 
were  always,  at  all  times,  just  herself  —  I 
recollect  particularly,  the  picture  of  her  as  a 
sister  —  certainly  the  dress  made  her  look 
most  beautiful  of  all." 

"  Silence  !  "  said  Rosuelo,  "  how  dare  you 
tamper  with  her  motives  ?  you  who  are  "not 
worthy  to  understand  them.  Yet  listen  — 
for  the  meanest  shall  not  calumniate  her, 
while  I  have  breath.  The  princess  wears 
that  dress,  assumed  that  order,  that  she 
might  visit  all  who  suffer  in  all  their  nooks 
of  hell  —  she  would  enter  hell  itself  to  rob 
it  of  its  prey.  As  a  daughter  of  royal  blood, 
so  rigid  is  the  etiquette  of  falsehood,  she 
might  not  stir  one  inch  without  her  father's 
leave,  nor  could  she  gain  it  for  that  end. 
Clothed  in  the  virginal  vesture  of  the 
church's  daughters,  she  is  free  to  enter 
every  where,  to  speak  —  to  console  —  to 
tovcli,  just  as  another  woman  of  the  sacred 
sisterhoods." 


114 


RUMOR. 


"  Tljen,"  cried  Rodomant,  in  a  voice  of 
amaze,  toned  audibly  by  fear  as  well  — 
distress  —  no,  something  wilder  —  passion. 
"Then,  can  it  be  —  is  it  true  that  she  will 
never  —  that  she  cannot,  marry?" 

"Not  at  all,"  answered  Rosuelo,  coldly, 
very  carelessly,  "  her  vows  extend  not  to 
that  degree." 

"Thank  God — for  somebody — I  mean 
whoever  marries  her  —  who  will  that  be,  I 
wonder  ?  How  shall  I  meet  the  Prince  to- 
morrow —  to-day,  —  is  it  not  this  morning 
now  ?  ■' 

"  Long  past  midnight,  I  should  say,  but  I 
have  no  time-piece  ;  to  me  it  is  not  needful. 
I  feel  the  hours,  and  my  pulses  tell  me  the 
minutes.  I  fear  from  your  remark  that  you 
are  fatigued ;  if  you  ever  slept  on  a  bed  so 
hard,  take  mine,  and  I  will  call  jou  so  early 
still,  that  the  guards  shall  only  think  you 
ai-e  a  very  rigid  Catholic,  that  you  miss  no 
hours  of  prayer.  As  for  me,  I  always  sit 
up  three  nights  in  the  week,  it  suits  me  and 
my  business  also." 

"  If  so,"  said  Rodomant,  suppressing  his 
first  yawn,  so  long  suspended  by  what  to 
nim  was  a  trance  of  breathless  interest,  "  I 
really  will,  for  it  is  my  fate  to  be  sleepy  at 
wrong  times.  And  if  I  fell  asleep  before 
the  prince,  I  might  blurt  out  your  confidence, 
lose  my  own  head,  and  be  the  cause  of  your 
crucifixion."  And  he  threw  himself  straight 
along  the  pallet,  which  pillowless  reminded 
him  of  a  stall  in  the  cathedral  of  his  native 
town,  into  which  he  had  sometimes  slyly 
crept  without  his  mother's  knowledge  —  and 
yet  where,  shame  to  him,  he  always  dropjjed 
asleep  under  the  childish  impression  that 
nothing  is  so  pleasant  as  to  do  any  thing  in 
the  wrong  place. 

Rosuelo  passed  the  time  in  adoration  — 
not  of  God,  God-Christ,  nor  the  Virgin,  and 
he  told  no  beads. 


CHAPTER    XXH. 

Rodomant  was  called  after  a  few  hours' 
Bleep,  and  Rosuelo  made  him  rise,  though 
he  had  just  reached  that  condition  of  mid- 
sleep  when  sleep  seems  necessary  to  exist- 
ence. Dead,  dragging  weariness  chained 
every  limb  ;  Rosuelo  made  him  bathe  his 
face,  made  him  drink  some  water,  and  then 
follow  him  directly,  that  is,  he  strode  out  at 
the  door,  and  so  fiist  that  Rodomant's  feet,  ] 
which  felt  like  feet  in  a  nightmare,  could  not  I 
keep  up  Avith  him.  Just  as  they  caught  sight ! 
of  the  palace,  and  soldier-sentinels,  the  priest  j 
turned  short  and  said  —  "  Though  we  are  | 
safe  now,  to  have  it  remarked  merely  that  l 
after  your  journey  you  hastened  to  return 
thanks,  and  afterwards  spent  some  time  with  ! 
jour   confessor,  this  mterview  of   ours,  asj 


it  is  the  first,  must  be  the  last ;  -we  must  meet 
as  friends  no  more.  Last  of  all,  let  me  beg 
of  you,  for  the  princess's  sake,  to  take  offence 
at  nothing  said  or  done  to  you,  or  to  any  one 
in  your  presence,  while  you  are  with  her 
father.  Please  him  also  —  humor  him  —  it 
can  do  no  harm,  and  may  do  some  little 
good,  if  he  is  diverted,  even  for  a  time." 

"  Ah !  before  w^e  part,  tell  me  the  reason 
the  princess  was  so  cold  to  me  before  her 
father  —  so  kind  afterwards." 

"  She  is  cold  to  all  men  before  her  father 
—  to  all  men  out  of  his  presence  also,  as  far 
as  we  have  the  right  to  know.  Excuse  me, 
but  you  and  I  are  her  servants  ;  she  would 
be  kinder  to  a  servant  than  to  an  equal.'' 

Rosuelo  here  gave  Rodomant  greeting, 
and  went  his  way. 

Rodomant  entered  the  palace,  and  reached 
his  own  place  cheerily ;  a  memory,  despite 
the  intervening  terrors,  was  like  a  morning 
song-bird  in  his  brain.  Whatever  Rosuelo 
had  said  to  damp  him,  his  natural  sincerity 
told  him  what  was  in  fact  true  ;  — the  august 
girl  had  never  communicated  to  any  person 
the  feehngs,  in  the  tones  she  had  used  to 
him.  Yet  his  sincerity  also  saved  him  from 
taking  undue  credit  to  himself,  and  he  also 
had  cause  to  call  upon  his  philosophy ;  for 
the  motive  of  her  strange  and  sad  sweet 
confidence  had  surely  been  Porphyro's  rec- 
ommendation !  Yet  Rodomant  rightly  felt 
that  it  was  extremely  improbable  she  had 
confided  those  feelings  so  sacred,  yet  so 
simple,  to  a  being  like  Porphyro  —  that 
human  magnet,  attracting  all  natures  strong 
and  keen  —  steel-like,  as  Rodomant  himself, 
but  yet  who  stood  apart  like  a  male  modern 
sphinx,  whose  enigma,  if  written,  remained 
to  be  read  and  translated,  and  who  was  the 
last  child  of  creation  it  was  likely  a  woman 
like  the  princess  would  —  but  there  Rodo- 
mant stumbled  over  a  harder  recoUeclion  — 
the  ring. 

With  that  memory  came  burning  thoughts, 
and  rushing  pulses,  which  drove  him  to  the 
cool  conservatory  ;  and  while  refreshed  there 
bodily,  he  mentally  resolved  that  he  would 
think  no  more  of  Porphyro  until  the  prin- 
cess told  him  —  all.  Then  he  reverted  to 
Rosuelo,  whose  extraordinary  personal  charm 
removed,  gave  way  to  the  impression,  always 
a  detestable  one  to  Rodomant,  of  his  insin- 
cerity, selfward  as  well  as  to  the  souls  of 
others,  of  his  craft  out  of,  not  in  his  priestly' 
profession.  "  I  am  truly."  considered  Rodo- 
mant, "  a  fitter  person  for  her  to  confide  in, 
or  confess  to  either,  than  he  —  for,  a  Catho- 
lic, he  reveres  not  his  church;  a  fanatic,  he 
seems  entirely  faithless,  and  I  suspect  him 
of  a  hankering  and  hungry  taste,  for  all  his 
monkishness  and  melancholy."  This  satiric 
suspicion,  albeit  spiced  with  spite,  was  indeed 
true  ;  and  it  was  true  besides  that  it  was 
the  last  act  Roseulo  should  have  perpetrated 
as  an  honest  man  to  become  a  priest  at  all. 
The  poorest  honest  member  of  the  religion 


RUMOR. 


115 


he  professed  bends  before  rude  images 
reared  in  nooks  by  dusty  waysides,  or  golden 
and  gemmed  doll-deities  on  marble  shrines, 
with  the  same  homage,  the  same  simplicity,  { 
perhaps  the  same  faith.  They  are  idols  —  \ 
vet  ihcv  represent  what  not  only  may  be  j 
worsliipped.  but  what  men  are  commanded 
to  adore.  Rosuelo's  idol,  with  all  its  divine  \ 
idea,  was  human  ;  God  he  neither  adored  nor 
loved,  for  he  cared  for  Him,  he  felt  Him,  he 
longed  for  Him  not.  Rosuelo  was  a  de- 
scendant, one  of  the  latest  and  very  poor- 
est, of  a  noble  family,  once  royal,  too,  and 
whose  dignity,  despite  its  poverty,  could 
only  he  extinguished  by  the  Church.  Chosen 
in  the  bud  of  his  boyhood  a  page  for  the 
princess,  then  in  her  infancy,  he  perused  iier 
beauty  from  its  dawn  —  that  his  oidy  study, 
until  her  character  unfolded  too.  But  with 
so  much  beauty,  and  so  grand  a  youthful 
grace  as  he  himself  possessed,  it  was  not 
likely  that  he  should  be  overlooked  in  a 
search  through  the  court  and  kingdom  for 
recruits  to  fill  the  ranks  of  that  ideal  sol- 
diery —  a  royal  guard.  Appointed  so  to 
protect  the  person  of  the  ruler,  and  his  im- 
mediate protectors  on  foot,  Rosuelo  looked 
on  horseback  a  picture  of  a  warrior ;  dis- 
mounted, a  knight  in  a  masquerade.  Along 
with  the  rest  of  his  honoralile  contempora- 
ries, sharing  that  chivalric  ordinance,  he  was 
hated  by  the  people,  as  they  hated  all  who 
reminded  them  of  their  Prince  —  except  his 
child.  His  beauty  made  no  way  with  them, 
it  had  shone  fairer  scan-ed  with  noble  wounds. 
Still  Rosuelo  prized  his  beauty  ;  it  might  be 
all  he  had  to  decide  his  fortune  with  —  his 
first  throw  and  his  last.  Seeing  the  princess 
from  infancy  to  childhood,  from  childhood 
to  the  prime  of  womanhood,  he  had  fixed  on 
her  as  his  deity,  his  faith  —  his  fate.  On 
her  hirs  soul  was  set,  and  it  was  with  him  as 
it  might  be  with  any,  who,  having  a  glimpse 
into  heaven  once,  withdrawn,  should  deter- 
mine on  entering  it  without  denying  self,  or 
conquering  sorrow,  or  loving  God  and  man. 
He  permitted  himself,  from  the  first  moment 
he  beheld  her,  to  prophesy  what  she  would 
become,  as  though  she  were  created  and 
designed  for  him  ;  and  such,  as  a  stripling's 
dream,  might  have  been  pardoned ;  but  it 
entered  into  his  manhood  as  well,  became 
its  chief  strength,  and  its  entire  passion. 

The  princess  in  no  way  was  to  blame  for 
this  sentiment  run  mad  ;  as  she  passed  into 
womanhood  she  lost  nothing  of  her  purity 
through  her  intense  perception  of  her  power 
over  others  —  that  is  men.  Numbers  she 
did  not  affect  as  vien,  she  was  infinitely  too 
exalted,  and  yet  too  simple  a  woman ;  and 
while  all  praised  her  beauty,  it  was  to  many 
as  inexpressive  and  unexciting  as  a  statue 
placed  in  shadeless  light.  The  reserve  which 
veiled  her  passion  none  should  pierce  except 
the  chosen,  and  if  he  came  not,  none.  Tiien, 
with  all  her  regal  courtesy,  she  loved  not  to 
meet  the  gaze  of  men — not  that  she  avoided 


it,  but  her  eyes  bad  a  glance  which  looked 
through  them  and  beyond  them,  as  though 
they  were  shapes  of  mist  that  passed  over 
the'  heaven  of  her  contemplation.  But  to 
return  to  Rosuelo's  brief  ^nd  bitter  career  as 
a  secular  personage.  He  was  one  of  the 
few  who  would  have  died  to  obtain  her,  but 
the  only  one  who  ever  for  an  instant  thought 
it  possible  he  might.  He  not  only  loved 
her  as  a  woman,  surpassing  the  bounds  of 
lawful  fealty  which  his  conscience  dared  to 
sanction,  but  he  let  her  know  it  ;  first 
enforcing  her  attention  by  his  open  and 
measureless  regard,  then  addressing  her, 
much  as  Rizzio  addressed  a  princess  more 
regal,  yet  less  over  herself  a  queen.  Ade- 
lai'da,  greatly  displeased  rather  with  herself 
than  him,  expressed  no  displeasure,  and 
disguised  the  instinct  of  womanly  aversion 
which  his  presence  as  much  as  his  audacity 
had  touched,  lest  she  should  at  that  moment 
drive  one  distracted  to  despair.  But  she 
expressed  such  cold  decision  ;  she  dis- 
charged his  suit  so  directly  and  so  readily, 
that  if  he  despaired  not,  he  hoped  no  more. 
She  interpreted  the  change  in  his  mood, 
and  therefore  gave  him  generous  counsel  ; 
and  if  imprudent,  it  was  not  the  less  kindly 
nor  natural  from  a  heart  so  young.  She 
forbade  him  her  presence,  unless  he  entered 
it  as  married  ;  and  she  advised  him  in  few 
words,  to  travel,  and  to  marry  —  she  would 
find  means  to  reconcile  her  father  to  his 
temporary  absence,  and  his  secret  should  be 
sealed  from  all.  Rosuelo  did  neither;  but 
quite  secure,  as  the  most  desperate  and  de- 
testable might  have  been,  of  that  secrecy, 
he  obtained  permission  of  the  prince  to 
enter  a  college,  in  aspiration  after  and  prep- 
aration for  priesthood.  No  other  motive 
would  have  induced  the  prince  to  spare 
him ;  it  was  a  merit  to  sacrifice  to  the 
church  so  handsome  a  soldier  and  loyal  a 
subject  as  his  own  person  ;  not  to  speak  of 
the  fact  that  the  instant  any  member  of  the 
princely  household  expressed  or  implied  a 
desire  "to  quit  it,  he  was  thrust  out,  lest  he 
should  poison  or  betray  the  prince.  Rosu- 
elo worked  hard,  and  his  studies  and  ecclesi- 
astical consistency  refined  his  beauty,  while 
they  gave  it  the  fascination  of  intelligence 
cultured  to  excess  ;  and  returning  on  the 
prince's  hands  as  his  own  spiritual  advise^- 
—  talismanic  rather  than  practical  —  he 
easily  found  access  to  the  convent  the  prin- 
cess claimed  as  her  favorite  resort,  from 
which  he  knew  well  she  would  not  retreat 
on  his  accoi  nt,  because  of  the  many  who 
depended  for  what  was  dearer  than  life,  on 
her  connection  with  its  order.  So  Rosuelo 
met  her  almost  daily,  though  scarcely  ever 
in  the  evening,  hence  his  allusion  to  the 
angelic  repast  he  had  partaken  of,  in  his 
conversation  with  Rodomant.  In  the  first 
instance,  after  his  return,  the  princess  had 
troubled  herself  little,  for  her  ideas  were 
so  pure  that,  as  she  would  have  considered 


116 


RUMOR. 


a  married  man  necessarily  freed  from  the 
lijjhtest  personal  influence,  so  a  thousand 
times  more  surely  a  priest  must  be  self- 
protected  from  the  same.  Thereupon  slie 
received  him  kindly,  treated  him  ingenu- 
ously, till  sharply  and  suddenly,  not  gradu- 
ally, she  detected  her  error,  and  severely , 
blamed  —  this  time  him,  not  herself.  It  was  t 
well  for  her,  that  from  the  beginning  of  her' 
independent  life  she  had  contemned  confes- 
sion, and  refused  to  confess.  This  decision 
saved  her  from  what  would  have  been  insuf- 
ferable communication  with  Rosuelo;  though 
she  would  not  have  allowed  him  to  become 
aware  that  he  inspired  her  with  repugnance 
or  alarm ;  it  was  therefore  fortunate  that  she 
could  assure  him  she  had  it  not  in  her  power 
to  obey  that  dictate  of  the  Church,  because 
she  dared  not  confide  to  man  what  she  did 
not  even  breathe  to  Heaven  —  that  she  loved 
not  her  fother,  nay,  that  as  far  as  hatred 
could  encroach  on  a  heart  filled  and  clothed 
with  charity  —  she  hated  him,  or  evil  in  his 
image.  When  Rosuelo  found  that  he  was 
denied  those  spiritual  yet  delicious  confi- 
dences which  had  filled  his  dreams  since  his 
departure,  he  fell  into  the  despondence 
where  dwells  no  deity,  the  real  and  only 
depths  of  hell.  Through  all,  his  body  was 
easily  mastered,  or  rather  his  behavior,  his 
desperation  was  so  strong  that  it  clutched 
and  defied  from  self-discovery  all  attributes, 
all  faculties,  all  but  its  own  blank  fict. 
Therefore,  he  could  not  only  endure,  but 
was  permitted  to  see  her  ;  in  the  dimgeon- 
dark,  by  the  lantern  gleam,  at  the  pallets  to 
which  the  tortured  were  dragged  to  regain 
strength  for  torture  ;  they  met,  the  priest 
and  the  princess,  with  no  rank  —  nothing 
but  her  disregard  —  between  them.  So  the 
broken  in  heart  and  limb,  the  scourged  of 
frame  and  sick  of  soul,  the  tormented  who 
would  not  have  acce])ted  deliverance,  but 
hid  sought  the  snare,  those  saved  for  the 
wheel  or  the  whip,  for  the  scaflbld,  or  the 
state-shot  to  end  them,  all  Hstened  to  Rosu- 
elo's  exhortations  without  an  echo  in  their 
sympathies  :  they  confessed  without  relief, 
wei-e  absoi.'ed  by  him  without  finding  con- 
solan  m ;  and  his  prayers,  trembling  elo- 
quent as  uttered  music,  touch  their  ears  as 
the  cold  air  struck  the  iron  of  the  dungeon- 
walls.  For,  when  he  addressed  the  unseen 
Father,  he  saw  with  his  bodily  eyes  a  form 
he  would  have  enduied  their  whole  miseries 
at  once  but  to  embrace  ;  and  if  he  sought 
the  intercession  of  the  holiest  of  human 
mothers,  it  was  with  another  woman  for  him 
—  not  her  own  for  them. 

Meantime  Rodomant  had  forgotten  Rosu- 
elo, for  on  returning  to  the  sleeping  cham- 
ber in  which  he  had  not  slept,  he  found  a 
suit  of  rich  clothes  laid  ready  on  a  jasper 
table.  Whether  placed  there  by  fairy  hands 
or  human,  he  presumed  they  were  meant  for 
him,  and  particularly  as  Porphyro  had  bid- 
den iiim  to  depart  without  special  equipment 


from  Parisinia.  This  costume  was  remark^ 
able,  gay,  in  contrast  with  those  he  had  re- 
marked aliout  the  throne ;  it  was  indeed 
only  at  balls  that  even  the  women  of  the 
Court  wore  white  or  colors,  so  perfect  was 
the  taste  in  fashion  of  the  most  depraved  of 
men.  However,  Rodomant  hesitated  not 
an  instant,  but  dressed  himself,  plumed  hat 
and  all,  then  resolutely  and  half-humoro-isly 
surveyed  himself  in  a  mirror ;  for  he  was 
bent  on  flattering  every  mere  foible  of  the 
prince  ;  in  a  positive  agony  of  fear  least  by 
that  person  he  should  be  sent  away.  It  was 
fortunate  he  did  not  know,  as  Porphyro  had 
kej)!  to  himself,  with  the  fact  of  the  treat- 
ment of  court-musician  in  court-fool,  that  it 
was  a  mummery  of  motley  with  which  the 
office  was  invested,  to  distinguish  it  from 
all  those  offices  more  serious  or  sublime,  helJ 
by  the  persons  about  the  Court.  So  Rodo- 
mant took  time  easily  as.for  a  spoi't,  and  being 
dressed,  until  he  should  be  sent  for,  lay 
down  and  slept  out  what  remained  wanting 
to  him  of  his  rest  the  night  before,  or  rather 
the  morning.  At  noonday  the  summons 
came. 

Nothing  in  the  palace  resembled  the  pen- 
etralia of  the  prince.  The  chamber  to 
which  Rodomant  was  conducted  lay  in  its 
very  centre,  at  the  heart  of  branching  corri- 
dors, safe,  so  it  seemed,  as  a  cellar  or  a  vault, 
for  the  ceiling  was  so  lofty  that  only  a  bird 
could  pass  over  it,  and  it  was  lighted  from 
that  roof  alone.  Luxury  behind  luxury, 
splendor  shading  splendor,  seemed  the  order 
of  its  appointment;  the  superb  pictures  were 
veiled  with  velvet,  the  mosaic  floors  weie 
hidden  by  carpets  stiff"  with  gold,  and  these 
again  softened  by  depth  u])on  depth  of  sil- 
very fur,  the  skins  of  costliest  animals. 
The  tapestries  were  wasted  on  the  walls,  for 
an  intricate  gold  net-work  crossed  them  in 
every  ])art,  up  which  clomb  living  jasmines 
—  or  what  seemed  to  breathe  but  lived 
alone  in  malachite  and  ivory.  The  canopies 
to  every  chair  were  silver  orange  trees,  with 
fruit  of  gold  ;  the  chairs  of  perfumed  wood 
were  gilded  smooth  as  glass  ;  the  tables  in- 
laid with  gems,  and  each  a  gem,  svere  lost  to 
vision  beneath  a  surfeiting  strew  of  priceless 
toys.  The  hue  of  the  cushions  and  couches 
wavered  between  a  pallid  azure  and  the 
fairest  flush  of  rose  ;  and  the  seat  the  prince 
occupied  had  fringe  of  fiiry  brilliants  and 
tassels  of  pearl  in  seed.  He  was  not  alone. 
At  Belvidere  was  a  harem,  differing  from 
those  of  the  Ivistern  world  in  so  far  as 
that  it  was  not  veiled  from  other  men,  nor 
masked  to  all  besides  its  owner. 

In  a  recess  lined  with  blue  enamel,  pow- 
dered thick  with  stars  of  silver,  was  a  cham- 
ber-organ in  a  case  of  goldsmith's  work, 
chased  and  ornamented  precisely  like  a  huge 
Parisinian  clock  ;  this,  Rodomant's  compar- 
ison in  his  own  mind  ;  also  a  harp  whose 
frame  was  studded  Mith  emeralds  and  rubies, 
and  a  pianoforte,  which,  from  its  exterior, 


RUMOR. 


117 


gave  the  impression  of  a  masterpiece  in 
Chinese  ivory-carving  —  these  the  musical 
furniture  of  the  apartment.  Rodomant  who, 
quite  self-possessed,  could  not  bring  himself 
to  apj^roach  the  prince,  went  to  their  recess 
as  to  his  proper  place,  and  the  prince, 
struck  favorably  with  his  modest  deport- 
ment, graciously  commanded  him  to  play. 
Now,  Rodomant  would  have  perished  before 
he  defiled  his  own  special  revelation,  his 
own  infant  imaginings,  his  virgin  and  art- 
betrothed  thoughts,  by  giving  them  an 
instant's  utterance  there.  He  knew  his  au- 
ditor, however,  and  his  performance,  given 
with  the  entire  strength  of  his  masterly  exe- 
cution, lent  spirit  and  voluptuous  sweetness 
to  a  theme  at  once  solid  and  sum]5tuous  — 
adaptive,  yet  not  inconsistent  with  the  reve- 
ries of  a  dramatic  artist.  Then  the  prince 
approved,  and  further  conferred  with  him, 
through  an  interpreter,  taking  a  skimming 
flight  over  the  fields  of  art  in  every  age  since 
that  in  which  music  was  a  cipher  and  a  single 
string  —  for  man.  For  the  prince  had  that 
sharp,  brilliant  cunning,  which  gleams  from 
the  eyes  of  the  lofty  among  the  lower  ani- 
mals —  dregs  of  an  intellect  once  lofty 
among  the  loftiest  men ;  also  his  instincts 
had  in  them  a  ])ower  to  select  —  dregs  of  a 
nature  once  fa>tidious  as  noble  and  imjjas- 
sionate  ;  he,  too,  could  play,  for  his  muscles 
had  an  elasticity  that,  though  it  failed  too 
quickly  far  for  strength  in  warfare,  still 
lasted  him  a  Avhile  on  those  soft  ivory  keys, 
than  which  his  hands  were  fairer  —  dregs  of 
a  race  superb,  and  once  as  untiring  as  the 
mountain  eagles. 

At  length  Rodomant  was  dismissed,  the 
point  and  conclusion  of  the  audience  being 
the  prince's  command  for  the  production  of 
Alarcos  in  the  theatre  of  the  palace  that  day 
week.  At  the  moment  the  composer  never 
even  touched  in  his  own  mind  on  the  diffi- 
culty of  carrying  out  such  a  command  ;  for 
he  was  sick  and  weary  of  his  great  com- 
panion, yearning  to  be  alone,  or  rather  for 
that  which  he  expected  to  spring  from  his 
next  solitary  hour,  a  summons  to  the  prin- 
cess. None  such  came,  and  he  heard  no 
more  of  her  that  M-hole  day,  than  if  she  ex- 
isted not.  It  was  quite  as  well  for  his  artistic 
fate  that  the  prince,  bent  on  the  instant  grati- 
fication of  the  most  refined  sense  he  pos- 
sessed, showed  the  same  tyrannous  decision 
=^mployed  to  arrest  and  punish  his  conscious 
slaves,  towards  this  whom  he  would  have 
esteemed  a  slave  as  well,  albeit  an  uncon- 
scious cue,  Rodomant  he  had  no  idea  of 
lea'-'.ng  idle,  and  after  the  necessary  noonday 
meal,  and  after  rest,  which  was  the  only  rule 
the  prince  could  not  defy  nor  tamper  with,  it 
being  a  law  of  climate  enforced  by  nature, 
he  sent  for  Rodomant  to  revicAV  the  orches- 
tra, which  was  further  stated  both  by  band- 
master and  jjlayers,  to  have  been  in  training 
for  the  retjuired  opera  for  months.  This 
feignided  litJe  to  Rodomant,  who,  wherever 


he  was  put,  contiived  to  direct  and  to  over- 
throw every  system  but  his  own,  on  the  best 
of  grounds,  that  this  alone  was  right.  All 
this  took  much  time,  particularly  as  the 
prince  was  not  only  present,  but  seemed 
ubiquitous,  dancing  up  to  Rodomant ;  sug- 
gesting, whispering  praise,  and  blaming 
loudly,  with  the  strict  etiquette  of  the  critic- 
aster, but  producing  no  more  effect  upon  his 
new  conductor  than  though  he  had  been  not 
only  deaf,  but  also  dumb,  and  subsiding  at 
last,  more  like  myrmidon  than  master,  at  trf 
silent  touch  of  the  art-sceptre  —  calling  up 
all  the  spirits  from  the  orchestral  deeps  — 
for  the  great  vibration  swept  the  prince  to 
his  place  as  easily  as  a  reed  is  taken  by  a 
rushing  tide.  Till  very  late  that  nig't 
Rodomant  worked,  long  left  to  himself  by 
the  prince,  who  was  too  well  acquiijnted 
already  with  the  letter  of  Alarcos  to  bear 
the  innumerable  and  analytic  readings  for 
long  ;  the  prince  read  score  as  excellently  as 
some  idiots  are  said  to  draw  cats.  As  for 
those  he  taught,  Rodomant  had  to  go  back 
to  the  very  beginning  —  they  were  ignorant 
of  his  new  song  as  childi-en  who  mispro- 
nounce an  unknown  language ;  and  in  the 
process  of  correction,  which  was  infinitesimal 
and  strictly  administered,  of  course  his  tem- 
per, never  calm,  surged  out  in  passion  that 
sounded  terrible  to  those  who  comprehended 
not  his  words  —  for  at  present  he  could  not 
communicate  his  will  to  them  save  through 
those  pseudo-Italian  phrases  which  may  be 
termed  the  slang  of  musical  art.  Only  a 
week  to  prepare  Alarcos  was  in  such-like 
phrase  —  to  cram  —  there  was  no  other  pros- 
pect until  he  freely  spoke  their  language. 
Dismissing  them  when  the  last  gasp  of  atten- 
tion turned  into  a  yawn,  a  universal  one  it 
looked  like,  they  vanished  quietly ;  never 
had  he  in  his  own  land  beheld  a  brood  of 
performers  so  pale,  so  orderly,  so  sombre  — 
spiritless,  or  spirit-chained  and  dumbrd.  So 
he  returned  to  his  rooms  in  a  desperate 
mood,  with  the  finest  space  for  music,  the 
quickest  if  not  the  most  intelligent  of  musi- 
cal readers,  and  perfect  instruments,  with 
sovereign  voices ;  if  he  succeeded  not  in 
this  his  first  effort,  could  he  not  take  this 
tide  at  the  ffood,  he  should  lose  —  not  for- 
tune, that  were  too  light  a  loss  to  mention 
in  comparison  —  but  a  golden  fate  to  which 
the  mightiest  fame  was  as  a  handful  of 
shrunken  dross. 

Little  he  imagined  that  for  the  first  time 
now  his  powers  of  endurance  had  to  be 
tested  thoroughly.  Next  morning,  again 
bidden  to  the  prince's  presence,  again  made 
to  play,  enforced  to  hear,  not  only  his  jjlay- 
ing,  but  the  ravings  of  mystic  sensualism 
peculiar  to  the  prince  in  his  most  princely 
moods,  and  which  baffled  the  moralist  as  an 
obscure  disease  eludes  the  physician  ;  again 
the  afternoon  of  arduous  if  world-derided 
labor  —  flimished,  longing,  unhelped  by  siga 
of  hope.     So  the  next  day  to  the  next,  with 


118 


RUMOR. 


nights  between,  sleepless,  not  dreamless  — 
at  last  came  the  hour  for  Alarcos,  and  at 
least  he  must  know  whether  indeed  the  prin- 
cess lived  —  for  that  week,  as  for  the  blank 
it  left  between  his  soul  and  her,  might  have 
heen  the  dread,  quick  week  between  death 
and  death's  death-burial. 

Fortunately  for  his  mood,  on  the  edge  of 
despair,  an  angel  plucked  him  from  it.  The 
princess  was  in  her  own  seat,  and  though 
forced  to  turn  from  her  face  after  his  first 
intense  inspection  —  so  swift  and  vivid  that 
it  seemed  to  others  but  a  glance  — ■  yet  that 
apparition  was  enough  not  only  to  console 
but  deceive  him  through  its  beauty.  Though 
it  was  a  fact  that  never  had  Alarcos  gone  so 
ill,  so  unlike  the  opera  under  a  parent's  inter- 
pretation, yet  he  had  never  been  so  content 
with* it  before.  It  was  well  that  the  prince 
was  chiefly  occupied  with  the  dramatic  pro- 
cession of  the  plot,  —  strange  that  those 
born  to  die  by  violence  ever  hanker  after 
histories  of  violence  or  blood,  —  and  also 
well  that  his  standard  of  perfection  and 
Hodomant's  were  not  identical.  So  for  the 
fust  time  in  his  life  Kod(miant  heard  no 
blunders,  detected  no  expressional  error. 
He  who  in  his  brain's  full  energy — his 
heart's  whole  holiday  —  had  discerned  a  tlaw 
as  minute  as  a  single  string  the  tenth  part  of 
an  inch  too  highly  screwed,  or  a  deficiency  as 
delicate  as  one  flute-note  dro]iped  ;  and  who, 
over  a  slur  too  harshly  rounded,  or  a  forte 
thundered  issiino,  had  fractured  his  self-re- 
spect by  anger  any  number  of  times  ;  this 
certainly  the  first  excejjtion. 

For  his  fealty  to  her  image  and  impression, 
he  was  this  time  rewarded  ;  false  as  he  was 
to  that  bride  he  had  once  boasted  as  a  choice, 
his  Art ;  and  to  the  very  woman  who,  refus- 
ing to  accept  his  primal  fancy  for  the  love  it 
was  not,  had  indebted  him  to  her  so  deeply, 
and  won  in  return  his  ungrateful  non-remem- 
brance. However,  before  he  left  his  desk, 
the  princess  sent  for  him  ;  and  first  follow- 
ing close  the  page,  her  messenger,  he  soon 
.eft  lhe  boy  behind,  and  had  to  wait  for  him 
after  all. 

In  the  portion  of  the  palace  at  once  the 
most  primitive  and  secluded,  the  princess 
dwelt  when  by  day  in  her  father's  house. 
Rodomant  found  her  in  a  chamber  Mhose 
first  furniture  was  intact,  eVen  to  the  ])aint- 
ings.  worn  by  time;  and  the  antique  cressets, 
instrad  of  lamps,  which  shed  a  solemn  and 
semi -light.  A  taste,  not  severe,  only  natu- 
rally simple  made  melancholy  by  contempla- 
tion, ruled  in  every  corner;  books  of  every 
variety,  in  almost  every  language,  but  not 
one  richly  bound ;  tables  covered  with  let- 
ters and  papers  (chiefly  petitions)  never 
unread,  oftenest  answered  in  person  ;  a  plain 
pianoforte  and  harp,  of  finest  mechanism  ; 
these  last  in  a  recess,  as  though  not  com- 
panions of  every  hour,  but  for  recreation 
only.  Not  an  unnecessary  ornament  besprent 
the  room,  just  as  none  marred  the  heavenly 


and  unconsidered,  if  not  unconscious,  beauty 

—  of  its  haunting  angel.  Rodomant,  so 
overpowered,  that  he  lost  not,  to  the  sight, 
one  particle  of  strength  (there  is  i  such 
self-possession  as  that  sprung  from  strong 
emotion)  stood  meekly  in  her  sight,  and  in 
himself  desiring  rather  to  die  with  her  eves 
so  bent  upon  him,  than  to  lose  her  yet  again. 
And  she,  early  schooled  in  the  experience 
that  calm  grows  out  of  suff"ering,  and  endur- 
ance from  mental  pain,  thought  him  too  dis- 
tressed to  allude  to,  or  make  apology  for,  the 
comjjarative  non-success  of  his  first  experi- 
ment in  her  father's  theatre.  For  she  whose 
intellect  was  one  of  a  more  consistent  integ- 
rity than  his  own  —  the  impulsive  one  of  the 
passion  Genius,  had  perceived  and  realized 
the  failure,  with  her  great  heart  regretted  it 
for  him  (the  least  of  the  strangers  she  entei 
tained  there,  unawares)  and  with  her  sweet, 
woman's  instinct,  longed  to  lighten  its  re- 
membrance by  her  sympathy. 

"  You  must  not  think,"  she  began,  "  that 
my  father  will  be  displeased." 

"  With  what  ?  "  asked  Rodomant,  in  a 
tone  correspondent  to  his  attitude  —  one  of 
meek  defiance. 

"  That  your  beautiful  work  was  so  poorly 
expressed  and  so  fatally  mishiterpreted,"  — 
she  used  again  what  must  be  called  artist- 
slang,  and  which  ought,  with  all  slang,  to  be 
pronounced  by  truth  as  well  as  taste,  illicit. 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Rodomant,  collectedly ; 
he  had  gathered  his  stray  wits  to  himself 
while  she  spoke  —  not  of  herself —  and 
therefore  he  could  rally  his  reasoning  forces 
easily.  "  Not  the  least.  Though  I  made 
the  music,  Alarcos  is  a  giant  child  —  the 
eldest  should  be.  First-born  of  r  ly  fame,  mj 
brain's  darling ;  it  is  a  character  not  easily 
comprehended  by  the  many,  especially  when 
they  have  first  mislearned  it.  Yet  for  its 
defection  —  for  its  yielding  your  highness 
only  slight  and  partial  pleasure,  pardon,  oh 
great  princess  ! " 

He  raised  his  eyes  here,  ard  literally 
blazed  upon  her  —  her  own  shivered  mo- 
mently, as  if  a  sudden  lightning  crt.  -ssed  them 

—  still  she  thought,  and  onlj  thought, 
"  what  splendid  eyes !  a  train  lit  up  by  in- 
ward fires  where  the  golden  ideas  (ire  melted 
into  form."  But  yet,  how  was  it,  she  met 
not  again  that  lightning  ?  but  her  i  weet  eyes 
fell,  and  the  lashes,  golden-dark  like  cedar 
branches  tipped  with  sunshine,  dropped  their 
dehcate  shadow  on  her  cheek. 

"  I  think,"  she  said,  "  that  all  the  blame 
lies  with  us  —  we  atBelvidere  I  mean.  The 
failure  in  perfection  Avhich  I  noticed,  was  en- 
tirely owing  to  the  fact  that  you  and  your 
pupils  did  not  understand  each  other  —  liter- 
ally I  mean.  As  for  us,  or  rather  them,  edu- 
cation is  not  the  order  of  the  day  in  Belvi- 
dere,  they  learn  nothing  which  nature  teaches 
them  not,  and  that  she  teaches  in  ])erverted 
in  them.  And  though  our  tongue  is  exquis- 
itely musical,  and  of  a  rarely  choice  constrac- 


niJMOR. 


119 


aon,  it  is  least  commonly  made  a  study,  of 
all  the  languages  of  Europe — perhaps  be- 
cause itself  so  nearly  Eastern.  Yet  is  easy 
to  understand,  and  easy,  I  hear,  to  learn. 
Then  let  me  ask  you,  will  you  learn  my  lan- 
guage, and  let  me  teach  you  ?  You  would 
learn  not  only  easily,  but  soon,  as  I  under- 
stand your  command  of  memory  is  so  great, 
that  you  play  the  works  of  all  ages  without 
book  or  note.  Once  more,  will  you  learn, 
and  shall  I  teach  you  ?  " 

It  was  well  for  Rodomant,  that  his  natural 
breeding  never  failed  in  any  circumstance  — 
his  passionate  amazement  vented  itself  here 
in  the  grace  of  gratitude  alone. 

"  Your  highness  is  far  too  generous,  too 
great  in  condescension.  I  could  not  learn 
so  !  "     Quite  sincere  in  that. 

Then  replied  she,  with  her  tact  as  subtle 
as  the  air,  "  You  shall  have  my  master  Ros- 
uelo  ;  I  mean,  when  I  say  my  master,  he 
who  taught  me  your  tongue  when,  having 
read  one  of  its  fairy  tales  translated,  as  a 
child,  I  felt  a  longing  to  repeat  it  inwardly  as 
written  in  the  beginning.  I  think  my  friend, 
whose  birth  and  faculties  are  noble,  would 
be  an  instructor  to  whom  you  could  not  ob- 
ject." 

"  No,  no,"  said  Rodomant  wildly,  yet  lowly 

—  she  noticed  not  his  passionate  confusion 

—  "I  will  learn  any  thing  of  any  one,  to  do 
the  bidding  of  your  highness." 

Little  knew  she  that  in  her  easy  renunci- 
ation of  an  intention  on  her  part  whose  ful- 
filment would  have  been  for  him  as  dear  as 
dangerous,  she  plucked  away  for  that  hour, 
his  passion  from  its  firm  hold  on  sense.  In 
an  instant  he  comprehended  that  if  he  was 
to  stay  before  her,  he  must  control  not  only 
his  words  and  manner,  but  his  insurgent 
tlioughts  ;  she  must  be  for  him  a  princess  — 
neither  angel  nor  other  woman. 

"Do  you  dislike  the  heat?"  asked  she 
again,  with  an  interest  that  was  somewhat 
singular  in  a  stranger's  mere  personality. 
"  I  took  care  you  should  have  a  cool  corner 
in  which  to  breathe." 

The  conservatory  —  yes,  Rodomant  knew 
what  she  meant.  Yet  something  checked  the 
expression  of  his  gratitude  —  an  instinct  he 
could  not  conquer,  though  then  unmixed  with 
suspicion.  Her  generosity  simply  abased 
him  lowlier  in  the  heavenly  humiliation  of 
worship.  He  could  not  speak  —  and  did  not 
tiT  —  she  thought  him  embarrassed  ;  yet  evi- 
de'ntly  wished  for  his  society,  or  why  not  have 
dismissed  him  ?  This  question  suggested 
itself,  but  to  his  honor  he  would  not  answer 
it  internally. 

"  I  heard  that  you  had  a  mother,"  she 
went  on  ;  "  why  did  you  not  bring  her  with 
you  ?  that  you  might  at  least  have  had  some 
one  to  speak  with  of  your  home." 

"  My  mother?  Your  highness  is  too  good 
• — she  went  to  Germany  before  I  came." 

"  You  must  miss  her  very  much,"  said  the 
princess,  in  her  benignest  accents      That  re- 


mark restored  Rodomant  more  than  oould 
any  influence  besides  have  done  ;  his  humor- 
ous vein  roused  instantly. 

"  The  idea  of  our  wanting  or  missing  each 
other ! "  he  exclaimed,  and  his  eyes  lit  up 
with  laughter,  though  no  echo  of  it  left  his 
lips.  "  She  first  left  Germany  with  me  when 
I  went  to  England,  that  her  apron-tic  might 
restrain  me  from  the  haunts  of  the  devil. 
And  when  I  got  on  in  Parisinia,  and  she 
found  that  I  still  lived  in  a  small  room,  drank 
no  wine,  nor  gambled,  then  she  wanted  to  go 
and  pay  a  visit  to  the  people  who  knew  hd 
when  she  was  dressed  like  any  owl.  I  had 
given  her  some  ornaments  too,  and  she  want- 
ed to  show  them  —  she  was  too  honest  to 
buy  any  for  herself,  for  she  considered  my 
money  was  earned  unfairly,  because  it  was 
made  by  music." 

The  princess  smiled.  "  It  is  a  great  gift 
of  Heaven  to  have  honorable  parents,  whether 
learned  or  simple.  I  should  like  some  day, 
when  there  is  time,  to  hear  your  history." 

"  It  is  nothing,"  said  he  abruptly,  "  I  am 
people-sprung,  and  if  I  have  no  defects  of 
ancestry,  it  is  because  I  know  no  ancestor." 

"  You  need  no  pedigree,"  the  princess 
thought,  as  she  cast  a  glance  on  him  from 
head  to  foot  —  the  frame  with  its  symmetric 
sternness,  the  eye  whose  strong  brilliance 
attested  taintless  blood  —  a  sign  infallible, 
but  by  few  interpreted.  "  We  are  all  people- 
sprung,"  she  added,  "  if  truth  be  spoken, 
which  is  seldom  —  princes,  kings,  nobles,  all 
were  of  the  people  once ;  the  people  raised 
them  specially  from  among  themselves,  and 
bore  the  control  because  of  superiority  —  an 
accident  —  on  the  part  of  those  they  raised. 
If  the  superiority  exists  not,  if  it  ceased  long 
since,  are  the  people  to  bear  control  of  those 
who  represent  it  in  a  hollow  superstition  ?  " 
Then  she  changed  her  tone,  indignation  strik- 
ing through  it,  and  over  her  spreading  a  mo- 
mentary air  of  abstraction,  such  as  always 
possessed  her  when  that  theme  was  touched, 
and  obliviousness  of  all  besides.  "  I  can- 
not comprehend  why  it  is  lawful  and  right- 
eous for  the  army  of  one  country  to  fight 
that  of  another,  for  the  thing  called  Ruler 
in  its  own  ;  yet  against  the  laws  of  heaven 
and  of  honor  to  fight  on  its  own  ground, 
for  its  own  rights,  against  the  oppressor  be- 
cause he  is  their  own  oppressor,  and  not  the 
oppressor  of  others." 

"  Civil  war  !  "  asked  Rodomant,  somewhat 
startled,  quite  as  much  because  the  subject 
seemed  unfitted  to  her  ideal  impression,  as 
because  she  was  a  royal  woman.  "  Your 
highness,  then,  defends  it?" 

"  Certainly,  if  any  ought,  it  would  be  I." 

"  But  they  might  kill  you,"  he  exclaimed, 
with  horror  in  his  voice. 

"  AVhat  a  sacrifice  !  "  she  murmured  ;  "  a 
drop  for  an  ocean.  But  if  tlie  restitution 
were  only  in  such  degree,  I  would  gladly  die 
—  at  least,  I  ougJit  to  die  gladly,  and  I  would 
willingly." 


120 


RUMOR. 


would  like  to  live,  and  therefore  could  only 
be  willing,  not  glud  t6  die.  Alas,  for  whom 
then  would  she  live  ?  —  they  shall  not  destroy 
her.  They  s'lall  not  kill  you,  princess,"  he 
added  aloud,  the  echo  to  his  thought ;  "  there 
are  many,  too  many,  wlio  love  you  ;  it  would 
not  be  permitted." 

Rosuelo's  words  returned  upon  him,  words 
which,  sprung  from  love,  had  seemed  the 
birth  of  loyalty  ;  and  then  came  sweeping 
back  to  memory  the  fact  that  to  the  princess 
hernelf  had  the  priest  referred  him  for  the 
elucidation  of  Porphyro's  mystery.  Quick 
followed  the  conviction,  insignificant  enough, 
how  great  to  him,  that  Porphyro  alone  could 
have  acquainted  the  princess  with  any  cir- 
cumstance of  his  life  —  his  mother,  his  mem- 
ory, or,  for  instance,  his  German  fondness 
for  linden  trees.  Had  not  Rosuelo  asserted 
that  Porphyro  wrote  to  the  princess  ?  And 
now  was  Rodomant  driven  direct  io  the 
point  which,  quite  unconsciously,  he  had  been 
trying  to  avoid  ever  since  he  saw  the  ring  on 
Porphyro's  finger  —  that  ring  so  attractive 
and  yet  obnoxious,  so  magic-like  yet  real  — 
jtal  as  the  man  who  dared  to  wear  it,  and 
whom  it  was  impossible  to  invest  either  pre- 
sent or  absent  with  an  ideal  attribute,  yet 
who  needed  not  the  faintest  pencilling  of 
imagination  to  render  him  a  mystery.  Un- 
conscious as  Rodomant  had  been  of  his  own 
shrinking  from  that  point  so  dark  yet  defi- 
nite, it  was  the  unconsciousness  of  one  in- 
stinct only  —  like  a  blind  man's  sightlessness, 
while  yet  his  sense  of  touch  is  doubly  if  grop- 
ingly acute.  So  felt  Rodomant,  if  blindly, 
that  something  in  some  person,  whether  Por- 
phyro, which  suspicion  he  tried  to  strangle, 
or  another,  exercised  over  the  princess  an 
influence  which  was  scarcely  negative,  though 
it  might  be  unconfessed.  Whether  he  would 
ever  have  gone  to  the  point  in  words  cannot 
be  pronounced,  for  the  princess,  going  to  the 
dimmest  corner  and  taking  a  book  in  her 
hand,  remarked  very  carelessly,  "  I  forget 
whether  you  ever  saw  Captain  Porphyro,  my 
father's  friend,  in  Parisinia ;  yet  I  think  it 
must  have  been  so,  as  he  spoke  of  you  with 
familiar  interest  very  unusual  from  him.  He 
was  there,  I  know,  the  whole  time  of  your 
visit,  but  I  understand  he  lives  in  great  and 
necessary  seclusion." 

Now  Rodomant  studied  to  be  as  careful  as 
she  had  been  the  reverse  —  in  exact  and 
ironic  proportion. 

"  He  lived  in  great  seclusion,  and  I  heard 
it  was  necessary,  though  I  never  could  find 
out  why.  At  first  he  was  in  prison,  so  I  was 
told  by  others  — •  so  he  told  me  himself :  still 
I  could  never  find  out  why  —  there  seemed 
a  fate  that  I  should  not  hear.  I  saw  him 
myself,  for  the  first  time,  however,  not  in 
seclusion  —  it  was  at  the  house  of  a  great 
actress.  I  wondered  who  he  was  ;  and  when 
I  heard,  and  also  discovered  that  he  corre- 
•po-ided  with  the  house  of  Eelvidere,  I  recol- 


lected him  with  astonishment  still  greater,  as 
a  person  so  insignificant  in  apjiearance,  and 
so  limited  in  capacity."  These  words,  both 
spiteful  and  untruthful,  succeeded,  if  they 
were  meant  to  wound.  The  princess  turned 
round  quickly,  and  threw  on  him  a  sad  yet 
searching  glance.  His  mien  must  have  dis- 
pleased her  even,  for  she  assumed  that  in- 
stant the  loftiest  manner  she  ever  employed 
to  any  connected  with  the  jK'opIe,  and  which 
was  lowly  compared  with  the  loftiness  un- 
measurable  she  used  to  every  creature  of  the 
cotiti. 

"  Every  thing  must  be  begun,  remember  ; 
you  had  to  begin  yourself,  and  thougli  gen- 
ius often  triumphs  young  in  art,  it  is  not  so 
with  genius  not  inspired  of  art  or  poetry,  yet 
God-inspired  —  yes,  more  than  they." 

"  I  presume  it  is  Porphyro's  genius  to 
which  your  highness  alludes."  Rodomant's 
crest  rose  as  his  courage  was  required.  Her 
mood,  most  regal,  daunted  him  not  the  least. 
"  Will  your  highness  condescend  to  tell  me 
what  are  its  bent  and  character  ?  I  am  as 
ignorant  of  either  as  of  the  crimes  he  ap- 
pears to  have  committed,  yet  of  which  I 
could  make  no  one  directly  accuse  him.  I 
see  what  he  is ;  what  is  it  he  would  there- 
fore do'?" 

"  His  genius  is  the  genius  to  command  — 
men  as  the  greatest  man,  no  ruthless  name 
of  ruler,  no  tyrant  christened  into  king,  no 
mockery  of  paternal  oversight,  but  sympathy 
as  strong  as  brother  felt  for  brotlier ;  no 
shadow  of  a  material  sceptre  to  intercept 
from  each  heart  the  light  of  freedom ;  yet  a 
rule,  the  firmest  where  the  gentlest,  which 
those  ruled  shall  rather  embrace  than  endure." 

Bhnd  instinct  again  burned  strong  in  Rod- 
omant. He  could  not  have  given  a  reason 
for  it,  but  he  felt  as  though  he  stood  there 
to  resist  a  delusion,  no  harmless  one  in 
itself,  but  which  affected,  in  this  instance,  an 
angel  to  its  hurt.  She  had  ceased  trem- 
bling, and  if  he  had  not  heard  the  tender 
shiver,  he  detected  a  softness  to  which  the 
tones  of  her  voice  had  fallen  —  she  dared  not 
speak  aloud. 

"  Princess,"  he  said,  with  more  reverence 
in  his  manner  than  she  or  any  other  had 
ever  heard  in  it,  "  I  think  that  his  ideas,  if  of 
command,  are  not  so  fabulously  faultless.  I 
was  with  him  once  alone,  and  tired  of  the  mys- 
teries he  makes,  or  which  others  make  about 
him,  I  inquired  '  Who  and  what  was  he  ? ' 
'  I  am  what  you  see  me,'  he  replied, '  and  as  to 
who  I  am,  you  know  my  name,  all  that  I  am 
and  mean— lies  there.'  So  I  said,"  went 
on  Rodomant,  his  recollections  rejoining  link 
by  link,  "  '  Porphyro,  that  means  purple,'  I 
know  enough  Latin  for  that,  princess." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  she  answered  hastily,  forget- 
ting to  turn  to  the  shade,  full  facing  him 
with  eager  interest,  "  bold  words  of  yours ; 
what  did  he  answer  then  ?  " 

"  He  said  just  this,  'What  more  meaning 
therein  than  in  red,  or  blue,  or  wliite  ? '   But 


KUMOR. 


121 


he  said  it  so  that  a  child  could  have  under- 
stood his  meaning  —  more,  so  much  more, 
that  it  could  not  be  expressed  in  words.  I 
should  say,"  added  Rodomant,  with  that  in- 
genious instancy  which  possesses  imaginative 
persons  to  let  out  freely  their  fancies  as  they 
rise  —  often  strangely  and  accurately  repre- 
senting facts  thereby,  "I  should  say  —  it 
strikes  me,  that  Porphyro  has  turned  a  pun 
on  his  own  name  into  a  spurious  prophecy. 
He  would  like  to  be  Caesar  Augustus,  if  not 
to  Rome,  to  some  place  or  race  —  perhaps 
the  whole  world;  one  maj  as  well  dream 
great  things  as  little  —  and  design  them  too 

—  who  realizes  and  who  fulfils  ?  " 

The  princess,  far  too  interested  to  be  an- 
gry, far  too  earnest  to  conceal  her  serious- 
ness, stood  as  if  on  her  defence  of  the  absent. 
"  I  never  knew  a  person  of  such  great  mind 
so  simple  —  he  is  ever  liberal.  What  he 
said  he  meant,  what  he  says  he  always  means 

—  his  words  are  ever  few.  He  has  not  a 
dream  or  design  of  royalty  —  much  less  the 
idea  imperial,  which  is  destroyed  even  in 
imagination,  at  this  age  of  the  world." 

Rodomant  pressed  his  lips  into  a  rigid 
line  that  he  might  not  smile  here ;  the  man  i 
knew  the  man's  nature  better  than  did  the 
aiigel-womau.  He  would  not  smile,  lest  he 
should  interrupt  her  ;  he  dreaded  to  hasten  his 
own  dismissal  by  check  of  her  singular  and  ■ 
still  enthusiasm.  The  princess — most  woman-  j 
like,  least  angel  there  —  thought  he  shared 
her  interest  or  that  she  had  awakened  his. 

"  As  for  his  character,"  she  went  on,  "  the 
■world  holds  not  his  equal.  There  is  besides 
this  to  be  said  —  he  might  rightfully  have 
dreamed  of  ruling  with  crowned  brows,  for 
he  is  of  a  family  whose  source  is  traceable  to 
that  of  the  first  emperor  of  Iris  —  Carlmag- 
nus  the  mighty  and  the  good." 

"  Ah  !  that  explains  much  —  and  he  re- 
pudiates it  ?  "  questioned  Rodomant  in  a 
slow  distinct  murmur. 

"  He  repudiates  it  tacitly ;  he  relies  not  on 
it  for  the  fulfilment  of  his  great  intention, 
and  indeed  he  is  too  greatlj'  occupied  to 
trouble  himself  with  or  to  discourse  about 
trifies.  It  is  enough  that,  if  he  chose,  he 
could  revive  the  right ;  he  asserts  only  his 
own  fate  —  his  star." 

"  Ah,  I  remember,  what  was  it  that  man 
said  —  princess?"  said  Rodomant,  training 
his  tone  back  to  deference.  "There  was  a 
man  I  asked  about  him,  a  man  who  puts 
kings  and  queens  for  characters  into  his 
books,  and  who  makes  them  do  as  strange, 
common  things  as  are  done  by  men  and  wo- 
men too.  Tliat  man  told  me  Porphyro  was 
star-struck.  I  thought  the  idea  of  people 
having  stars  was  as  old  as  that  old  idea  of  pur- 
ple which  vexed  your  highness  just  now." 

"  I  do  wonder  I  am  foolish  enough  to  talk 
to  you !  "  exclaimed  she,  half-sweetlv,  half 
impatiently,  "but  as  we  began  we  will  finish. 
Porphyro  believes  in  a  star,  as  we  must  have 
a  symbol  for  the  idea  of  destiny;  it  also 
16 


represents  the  soul  of  man.  A.  star  is  but 
another  name  for  that  individual  intelligence 
which  the  hour  of  birth  presents  to  Time  for 
time,  to  Eternity  for  eternity.  Even  the 
saints'  histories  so  represent  men's  beings. 
One  star  differs  from  another,  but  they  are 
innumerable :  infinitely  they  people  the  fai 
depths  of  space  —  space  immeasurable,  em- 
blem of  the  immortality  which  contiins  the 
life  of  each  created  soul.  Some  are  distinct 
as  suns  —  fixed  guides  for  men  on  track  .ess 
path  or  wave.  Many  are  bright,  but  of 
lesser  use  and  glory;  thousands  hang  to- 
gether in  nebulous  gleam  —  each  contributes 
its  light,  yet  as  a  light  is  not  distinguishable. 
There  are  stars  invisible  to  men,  even  as  a 
broken  ray  of  light's  fair  essence.  But  aU 
are  stars  alike." 

Rodomant's  humorous  perception  pierced 
to  the  very  germ  of  this  wild  notion,  it  was 
such  as  a  woman  of  the  princess's  wit  could 
only  entertain  under  a  spell,  an  influence 
which,  albeit  cast  from  the  brain  of  another 
commanded  her  heart  alone,  not  her  under- 
standing. But  he  resolved  to  make  no 
comment  on  such  a  theory ;  only  to  obtain 
information,  and  impart  it. 

"  I  do  not  see,"  he  said,  "  how  so  inno- 
cent a  person  contrived  to  get  into  prison  — 
the  days  are  over  when  they  put  men  into 
prison  for  being  astronomers.  Yet  that  he 
was  in  prison  I  know,  and  more  than  that, 
he  very  nearly  went  there  again  for  brtak- 
ing  his  word." 

"  For  what  ?  "  asked  the  princess,  hur- 
riedly, swept  downwards,  though  most  un- 
willingly from  her  starry  trance.  She  evi- 
dently despised  no  man's  opinion,  if  it  con- 
cerned Porphyro's  career  or  character. 

"  For  breaking  his  word,"  persisted  Rodo- 
mant. "The  same  man  who  told  me  he 
was  star-struck,  told  me  he  was  just  let  out 
of  prison  —  Porphyro  I  mean  —  for  an  of- 
fence he  was  just  going  to  explain  to  me, 
when  he  —  the  man  who  was  with  me  —  was 
himself  caught  hold  of  by  soldiers  in  the 
streets,  and  taken  to  prison.  Why  was  he 
taken  ?  Actually  because  they  mistook  him 
for  Porphyro.  'Porphyro  had  been  seen 
with  me  that  night,  hence  arose  the  mistake. 
How  flattered  I  felt  to  have  been  remarked 
by  officers  of  the  state!  Now,  though  I 
don't  know  why  they  had  put  Porphyro  in 
prison  the  first  time,  yet  I  do  know  that  the 
king  let  him  out  on  condition — on  his  word, 
princess,  that  he  did  not  reappear  in  Pari- 
sinia.  Yes,  he  was  there ;  an  odd  thing  for 
a  man  who  always  speaks  the  truth.  He 
was  there,  not  only  then,  but  afterwards.  1 
went  to  see  him  —  he  sent  for  me." 

The  princess  here  gave  the  troubled  look 
peculiar  to  those  who,  in  perplexity,  will  not 
try  to  unravel  it,  because  they  will  not  to 
themselves  acknowledge  its  actual  impres- 
sion. To  a  nature  of  stainless  truth,  such 
perplexity  is  intensely  painful ;  if  unac- 
.  knowledged,  perhaps  most  deeply  fell. 


122 


RUMOR 


"  I  have  not  heard  from  him  of  his  private  , 
concerns  or  conduct  for  a  long  time,  though 
we  correspond.  He  told  me  his  intentions 
once,  and  it  is  enough  —  I  believed  him ;  I 
understood  them.  I  believe  him  and  under- 
stand them  now.  There  is  no  one  person 
great  and  good  as  •well,  whose  enemies  out- 
number not  his  friends,  and  l)oth  occasion- 
ally act  for  the  worst  instead  of  the  best  — 
his  enemies  misrepresent,  and  his  friends 
exaggerate.  And  so  it  must  be  till  the  time 
comes  —  till  he  can  prove  himself  of  himself 
alone." 

"  Oh !  "  exclaimed  Rodomant,  wickedly  ; 
he  actually  longed  to  make  and  to  see  her 
angry.  "It  was  but  a  very  little  offence," 
my  friend  said.  And  he,  my  friend  princess, 
hates  the  king,  though  he  does  not  love 
Porphyro.  He  said  it  was  just  such  a  tiny 
crime,  and  insignificant,  as  if  a  child  were  to 
kick  the  crown  on  its  cushion  in  the  closet." 

It  succeeded  not  here  —  she  even  looked 
relieved.  "  I  know  nothing  of  it,  nor  of  the 
iiundred  disagreeable  circumstances  which 
sow  thorns  in  the  right  path  for  such  a  man. 
It  will  be  as  well  for  us  to  avoid  that  phase  of 
any  subject  —  the  political  side  —  for  we  can 
know  nothing  of  it  accurately,  either  I  as  a 
woman  or  you  as  an  artist." 

"  But  as  a  princess,  would  your  highness 
avoid  it  ?    How  so,  and  do  your  royal  duty  ?  " 

"  Perhaps,  if  such  a  thing  ever  came  to 
pass  ;  even  then,  were  I  called  to  reign,  I 
might  after  all  not  govern."  She  spoke 
proudly,  even  triumphantly,  with  lifted  head. 

"What  can  she  mean?"  thought  Rodo- 
mant. "  Would  she  resign  and  retire  into 
her  convent?  Yet  why  then  look  so  royally?  " 
Alas  for  him,  his  own  heart  answered  the 
question  —  "  There  is  one  to  whom  she  would 
resign  the  rule,  while  wearing  its  signet 
only." 

"  I  have  to  tell  you,"  she  added,  "  though 
you  do  not  deserve  to  hear,  that  you  are 
better  appreciated  by  Porphyro  than  he  by 
you.  He  has  for  you  a  regard  and  admira- 
tion I  never  heard  him  express  for  any  one 
who  was  a  ncn-politician  before.  You' shall 
read  a  part  of  a  letter  in  which  he  writes  of 
you."  Just  as  if  his  opinion  were  inestima- 
ble and  final.  Now  Rodomant  was  entirely 
regardless  of  it,  Avhatever  he  was  when  face 
to  face  with  the  person  of  whom  they  spoke. 

"Not  now,  princess;  your  most  humble 
servant  cares  for  no  appreciation  —  for  no 
approbation  ;  I  should  say,  saving  only  yours, 
and  that,  I  have  not  earned  to-night." . 

"  His  is  worth  much  more  than  mine,"  she 
said,  with  her  hand  upon  a  casket  she  had 
been  about  to  open,  and  she  looked  disap- 

J)ointed  that  the  excuse  for  taking  out  the 
etter  had  failed.  "  It  is  worth  much  more, 
because  music  is  my  solitary  charm,  my  dear- 
est passion,  and  to  him  it  is  the  merest  pas- 
time ;  to  subdue  him,  its  eff'ects  must  rise 
indeed  to  the  sublime.  And  you  have  that 
credit;   he  was  positively  affected  by  yovir 


compositions  —  they   made    him  eVen   elo 
quent." 

"  Condescending  —  charming  !  "  cried 
Rodomant,  and  bowing  low,  mockingly,  then 
fixed  on  her  his  eyes  with  a  sh}-  glitter. 
"  My  brain  is  lighted  up  to-night ;  I  recol- 
lect every  thing.  Some  words  of  his  seem, 
to  whistle  past  my  ears,  as  they  did  that 
night  —  so  sharp,  distinct,  and  strong.  But 
perhaps  I  may  not  have  permission  to  repeat 
them,  it  is  already  late." 

"  You  may,"  she  said,  with  regal  attitude, 
but  downcast  eyes  :  why  did  she  not  dismiss 
him? 

"  I  was  standing  by  this  man  with  tho 
imperial-sounding  name,  and,  after  a  few 
remarks,  in  which  we  quarrelled,  and  he 
showed  himself  as  ignorant  of  art  as  I  am  of 
his  offence  against  the  king,  he  added,  '  If  I 
were  at  the  head,  I  would  encourage  art,' 
just  as  if  genius  could  be  planted,  watered, 
and  made  to  grow.  Then,  princess,  he  turned 
aside  to  me,  and  he  dropped  these  words 
into  my  brain  —  they  ring  there  yet  when 
I  remember  them  —  '  I,  who  never  thanked 
man  before,  I  thank  you,  for  you  have  helped 
me,  you  have  shortened  my  way,  perhaps  by 
many  steps!'  Princess,  since  you  have 
stamped  him  with  your  approval,  and  have 
condescended  to  enlighten  me  as  to  his  star, 
a  meaning  shines  through  those  words,  which 
I  no  more  perceived  in  them  then  than  we 
can  see  the  stars  at  noonday.  I  did  not  go 
out  in  Parisinia  more  than  I  was  obliged,  and 
yet  the  wind  sings  through  every  one's  key- 
hole ;  it  said  very  distinctly  how  discontented 
the  people  were ;  and  I  for  my  part  never 
saw  any  thing  so  terrible  and  savage  as  their 
love  for  bloody  stories,  whether  of  love,  or 
war,  or  suicide.  For  that  they  liked  Alar- 
cos  —  for  that  I  sickened  of  it  the  moment 
it  was  made  clear  to  me.  W^hen  Porphyro 
paid  me  that  compliment,  which  then  I  did 
not  know  how  to  digest,  he  had  only  heard 
Alarcos,  he  had  only  seen  their  enthusiasm 
—  or  rather  mania  —  for  it.  Then  what 
meaning  could  he  have  had,  princess  ?" 

She  stood  with  steadfast  lids  that  would 
not  lift  themselves,  a  haughtier  grace  seemed 
to  crown  her  brow,  but  round  her  lips  crept, 
blending  with  their  disdain,  a  helpless  ex- 
pression, which  would  have  deterred  any 
other  man  from  straining  on  the  subject  fur- 
ther. Not  so  Rodomant,  it  but  strengthened 
his  inexorable  longing  to  torment  —  born  of 
a  blacker  jmng  of  his  own  most  secret  heart. 

"It  could  be  but  one  meaning,  /  think  — 
that  my  music,  exciting  the  people  so  madly, 
might  drive  them  all  the  faster  to  a  revolu- 
tion ;  little  signs  precede  great  events  some- 
times, and  strengthen  them  to  fuMment. 
He  said  by  many  steps  I  might  shorten  his 
■way  —  no,  had  shortened  it.  Was  not  that 
fighting  against  Heaven's  set  decrees  ? 
And  worse,  —  for  those  only  can  do  who  can 
dare  every  thing,  —  did  it  not  show  a  want 
of  perfect  confidence  in  himself  alone  ?  " 


RUMOR. 


123 


For  a  moment  tlie  princess  looked  at  him  ; 
surprise  at  his  perseverance,  his  audacity, 
supplanted  every  other  sensation ;  and  for 
that  moment  her  glance  seemed  gathering 
quiet  wrath  —  her  breeding  would  have  con- 
descended to  no  other.  Yet  it  was  not  in 
nature  —  woman's  nature  —  to  be  angry  with 
Kodomant ;  his  quaint,  bright  glance,  wholly 
unworldly,  yet  half-heroic  aspect,  above  all 
the  unconscious  fascination  which  lurked 
e\  en  under  his  impeitinences,  all  held  her 
fast ;  too  generous  to  resist  the  spell,  she 
smiled,  and  quite  drew  back  her  hand,  which 
had  wandered  from  the  casket  to  a  chased 
boll  lying  near  it ;  had  she  meant  to  summon 
her  servants,  and  abash  him  by  dismissal  in 
their  presence  ?  It  mattered  little,  for  the 
fair  hand  drojiped  to  her  side,  and  was  lost 
in  tl>e  dark  folds  of  her  dress  ;  the  other 
hand  grasped  her  rosary,  but  in  reality  was 
pressed  upon  her  heart,  to  keep  down  in- 
wardly the  soft  and  shattering  pulse,  un- 
known to  man,  and  to  all  women  but  very 
fey,'.  Had  Rodomant  known  this,  he  would 
have  died  rather  than  add  to  that  still  ex- 
tremity of  repressed  emotion  ;  but  he  saw 
nothing  except  the  smile  which  bathed  her 
as])ect  in  a  fresh  and  vivid  beauty,  more  be- 
wildering, if  less  sweet,  than  her  proud  and 
tender  gravity.  He  would  do,  say,  risk  any 
thing,  to  remain  as  long  as  possible  in  her 
presence,  to  procure  even  a  few  instants' 
further  respite  from  the  despair  which  waited 
to  arrest  him  the  moment  he  should  be  left 
alone.  There  was  but  one  means  left  him, 
and  he  sold  it,  little  suspecting  what  he 
should  acquire  in  exchange.  Even  were  it 
his  last  resource,  should  he  not  crush  her 
pride  with  the  knowledge  of  that  —  her 
secret  ? 

"  Princess,  I  must  say  one  thing,  whatever 
are  Porphyro's  faults,  he  is  not  ungrateful, 
and  I  should  have  recalled  that  before.  He 
wears  tlie  ring  faithfully ;  I  saw  it  on  his  fin- 
ger. How  beautiful  it  is ! "  He  uttered 
each  word  slowly,  to  lengthen  her  suspense. 
She  started  back  a  pace,  bewildered  and  un- 
blushing, he  could  not  doubt  her  innocence. 

"  What  ring  ?  "  she  asked  unfalteringly, 
"  I  never  saw  him  wear  one,  nor  any  orna- 
ment. Yet  doubtless  he  has  many,  his  mother 
k'ft  jewels,  I  know." 

"  A  ring,"  said  Rodomant  roughly,  his 
reverence  momently  impaired  by  the  baf- 
fling of  his  design  to  torment.  "A  ring 
with  the  portrait  of  your  highness,  the  finest 
I  ever  saw ;  fine  for  minuteness,  fine  for 
finish.  I  had  a  fancy,  now  a  fallacy,  as  I 
perceive,  that  only  your  highness's  own  hand 
could  have  guided  so  fine  a  brush  to  such 
rainbow-ravellings  of  color.  And  then,  what 
more  common  than  for  a  princess  to  bestow 
even  a  gift  so  costly  u])on  one  who  serves 
her,  or  who  pleases  her  equally,  a  soldier 
too,  not  a  court-musician,  that  soldier's  tool, 
though  for  what  ornament  he  meant  me  in 
his  ai-mory,  or  to  what  use  in  the  future  he 


means  to  bend  me,  break  me,  or  melt  me 
down,  I  cannot  tell  any  more  ihan  I  can  teL 
from  what  genius  he  forced  that  ring,  seeing 
it  was  not  given  him." 

This  last  dying  gasp  of  spite  hurt  no  one 
but  himself.  The  princess  heeded  him  no 
longer,  he  saw  that,  and  he  also  realized  that 
he  had  filled  her  with  delight  —  for  another. 
Her  cheek  glowed,  the  glory  in  her  eyes  grew 
tremulous  as  starhght  seen  in  quivering 
water ;  her  brow  brightened  like  sunshine 
falling  on  a  lily.  Sweet  smiles  lit  the  roses 
of  her  lips,  not  .swift  as  wont,  but  lingering ; 
yet  even  when  she  again  addressed  him,  he 
felt  the  smiles  were  not  for  him,  but  for  some 
delicious  hope  to  which  he  had  lent  naif- 
assurance. 

"  I  never  painted  a  ring,  I  do  not  paint," 
she  said,  .so  graciously  that  he  would  have 
preferred  her  severest  wrath.  "  Nor  did  I 
ever  give  a  ring  to  any  man  ;  but  Porphyro 
paints,  I  know,  and  so  minutely  that  I  have 
seen  a  picture  of  his  on  a  watch-paper  fitted 
to  a  watch  no  larger  than  a  thumb-nail. 
Have  you  seen  any  other  of  his  paintings  ?  " 
this  indifferently,  of  course,  that  she  might 
hear  more. 

*'  Dear,  yes,"  said  Rodomant,  his  vexed 
passion  sinking  into  suUenness ;  "  I  saw  a 
great  picture  finished  up  small,  of  Parisinia,  as 
he  means  to  make  it  —  he  told  me  so.  A  city 
as  unlike  Parisinia  now,  as  the  great  golden 
globe,  called  moon  in  Belvidere,  is  unlike 
our  shrunken  silver  phantom  called  a  moon 
in  Northland.  Can  any  but  a  king  re-make  a 
city,  or  another  but  an  emperor  give  to  an 
empire  resurrection?"  But  he  repented  re- 
turning to  that  well-chafed  string,  after  the 
other  and  sweeter  he  had  touched.  For  the 
princess,  resolutely  stretching  her  hand  this 
time,  shook  loudly  the  silver  bell,  and  turn- 
ing towards  the  door  till  it  was  opened  by  a 
page,  saluted  Rodomant  in  silence,  and  with- 
drew. Silent  as  she  was,  however,  he  had 
to  see  her  last  with  the  blissful  blush  he  had 
himself  called  up,  brightening  on  her  face  to 
a  calm  more  tender.  For  truly,  whether  she 
felt  or  no,  whether  lightly  or  deeply,  for  Por- 
phyro ,  never  before  had  he  contributed  the 
least  to  her  woman's  peace  or  happiness  — 
he  had  but  stirred  her  heart  to  restle«i-sine^8 
on  its  first  awakening. 


CHAPTER  XXm. 

"Whatever  she  did  that  night,  whether 
she  wept  her  fill  of  those  delicious  tears 
whose  fountains,  like  those  of  the  one  agony 
prepared  for  every  soul,  break  up  but  once, 
or  whether  she  slept  and  dreamed,  and 
smiled  upon  her  dreams,  Rodomant  never 
knew,  for  in  after  days  the  bliss  and  agony, 
alike  extinct,  had  uo  ghosts  to  give  Ap  from 


124 


RUMOR. 


the  grave.  But  as  for  him,  -whether  for  his 
misconJucl  or  his  presumption,  lie  sutiered 
enough  thai  night  —  not  enduringly  but 
openly.  The  control  of  her  presence  taken 
from  him,  and  the  freedom  of  solitude  Hung 
over  him  instead,  he  passed  the  hours  in  that 
deep  heart-raving  which,  when  the  brain  is 
lucid,  cannct  waste  itself  in  words.  But  for 
the  passion  for  renown  which  yet  held  fast  his 
mind,  leaving  his  heart  to -its  wildest  dreams, 
his  after-works  had  never  been,  for  he  would 
have  destroyed  liimself.  As  it  was,  he 
walked  with  crushing  footstep,  up  and  down, 
and  round  and  round,  backwards  and  for- 
wards, from  one  chamber  to  another,  like  a 
forest-animal  caught  fresh,  and  possessed  of 
several  cages  instead  of  one.  The  night 
seemed  but  an  hour,  and  a  short  one  too, 
for,  say  what  physiologists  will  of  physical 
pain  drawing  out  time  immeasurably,  the 
spirit's  anguish  quickens  it ;  were  it  not  so, 
it  could  not  be  endured  at  all,  for  the  power 
to  suffer  would  be  exhausted  by  the  demand 
upon  it ;  the  pain,  as  of  the  body  in  a 
swoon,  would  cease.  Then  comes  the  blank 
arousing  —  so  it  came  to  Rodomaut  in  the 
bright  morning,  when  light  sickened,  and  the 
rare  perfumes  toucheil  the  sense  like  the 
common  odors  —  with  disgust ;  when  the 
nerve-strength  too  quickly  drawn  upon,  had 
not  a  sand  left  in  the  glass,  and  before  vi- 
tality returned  again,  there  must  be  that 
blank  in  being,  and  the  blank  alone.  Truh", 
if  pride  be  love's  antidote,  pride  is  no  anti- 
dote for  passion  at  its  height.  Mad,  undig- 
nified, even  disloyal  as  Rodomant's  conscience 
convicted  the  state  of  his  heart  to  be,  as 
soon  as  the  short  sharp  anguish  had  dis- 
persed itself  and  left  room  for  slower  tor- 
tures ;  yet  he  could  conscientiously  excuse 
him  by  very  means  of  a  torture  sharper  than 
all.  lilack  as  was  his  jealousy,  it  was  not  cold 
like  envy  ;  it  burned  and  was  consumed  not, 
and  by  its  very  tiame  he  saw  the  fact,  cleared 
further  also  by  an  instinct  that  seldom  erred, 
and  never  on  his  own  account,  that  one  not 
above  him,  not  his  equal  in  some  respects, 
was  preferred  before  him.  Every  instance 
of  her  gracious  kindness,  before  so  infinitely 
dear,  turned  its  thorn-like  pang  into  his 
heart ;  for  the  sake  of  the  regard  she  bore 
another  had  that  regai'd  been  shown,  her 
very  appreciation  was  not  genuine,  but 
adopted  on  the  recommendation  of  that 
other ;  she  had  taken  even  his  own  genius 
on  trust.  He  despoiled  her  sweetest  wreath 
of  charity  in  the  cool  of  that  blank  morning, 
teaiing  up  the  pale  fiowei"s  of  the  conserva- 
tory, rending  the  fair  ferns,  and  breaking 
branches  off  the  linden,  so  that  the  nightin- 
gales shivered  in  their  unveiled  nest.  He 
even  gnashed  his  teeth  in  honor  of  Lady 
Delucy,  and  cursed  her  wordlessly  for  having 
excited  him  to  write  a  song-memorial  of  no 
memory  he  had  ever  known,  and  to  blast  its 
prophecy  with  ruthless  sadness.  Still,  the 
very  blank  excluded  not  the  prudence  which 


does  not  belong  to  passion,  but  is  inevitabla 
in  love. 

"  If  I  betray  myself  I  am  lost,"  thought 
Rodomant,  "  if  all  be  lost  not  now.  But  no. 
she  only  went  that  I  might  not  disturb  her 
thoughts  of  him,  ungrateful  as  all  women 
are." 

But,  ungrateful  as  she  was,  she  had  not 
forgotten  him,  nor  her  generou**  intention 
towards  him  in  the  very  least  fulfilment.  At 
eight  o'clock  a  message  came  from  Rosuelo 
to  know  whether  Rodomant  would  take  his 
first  lesson  in  his  own  room  or  the  priest":;. 
Rodomant  chose  the  latter  alternative,  anx- 
ious to  get  away  from  the  scene  of  his  night- 
terror,  and  further  having  a  partiality  for  the 
vicinity  of  the  prison-palace  in  which  tlie 
])rincess  slept. 

Rosuelo,  who  had  forbidden  Rodomant  to 
visit  him  again  privily,  had  of  course  set  his 
negative  aside  on  receiving,  almost  with  the 
dawn,  the  commands  of  the  princess.  Still 
it  was  evident  he  intended  to  make  the  visit 
one  of  necessity  and  strict  employment  only, 
for  the  table  was  covered  with  books,  and  he 
only  just  noticed  Rodomant's  entrance  by 
bowing,  without  looking  up.  But  Rodo- 
mant took  no  notice  of  the  books,  begin- 
ning instantly,  "  I  heard  all  about  Porphyro 
last  night,  that  is  as  much  as  she  knows  or 
thinks  she  knows  —  you  must  tell  me  the 
rest." 

Rosuelo,  amazed  at  this  abrupt  remark, 
looked  up  —  saw  the  shadow  of  the  terror 
so  dark  below,  and  the  blank  above  it,  lying 
pallid  on  Rodomant's  face.  An  expression 
at  once  all  blank  and  all  darkness  —  how 
could  it  be  interpreted  ?  what  was  there  to 
read  ?  Yet  Rosuelo  saw,  felt  —  as  deep  as 
his  human  nature  went  was  pierced  with 
sympathy.  "  Another  victim,"  he  mur- 
mured, in  his  low  rich  tones,  "  and  the 
slayer  innocent."  But  as  Rodomant  seemed 
too  absorbed,  or  too  exhausted,  to  have 
heard  the  words,  he  added,  "  and  what  think 
you  now  of  Porphyro  —  I  told  you  of  whom 
to  inquire." 

"  I  hate  him,"  said  Rodomant,  between  his 
teeth. 

"  Hard  wqrds  and  dangerous,"  said  Ros- 
uelo with  a  guarded  glance,  "  nor  is  he  hate- 
ful." 

"  Who  loves  him  then  ?  "  cried  Rodomant, 
with  eyes  he  took  no  pains  to  veil,  flashing 
defiance  of  the  assertion. 

"  The  princess  would  tell  you,  thousands 
—  and  that  tens  of  thousands  will.  I  won- 
der she  did  not  say  so." 

"  Because  I  was  placing  facts  before  her, 
and  she  was  rejecting  them  as  tj-uths  — • 
there  was  no  time.  I  tell  you  I  come  to  you 
to  hear  the  rest  —  and  will.  Is  the  man  bad  ? 
that  is  of  some  consequence,  it  seems  to  me, 
to  be  ascertained  by  those  who  if  they  hate 
him,  do  not  hate  her." 

"  Porphyro  bad  —  I  think,  on  the  con- 
ti'ai-y,  that  his  heart  is  kind,  an  1  dispositioa 


RUMOR. 


125 


inclined  to  benevolence.  I  even  think  that  | 
in  his  self-estimate  he  is  not  willinj^ly  de- 
ceived, for  I  do  not  call  his  an  intellect  of  i 
lofty  cast,  and  he  has  gazed  so  long  on  a  j 
point  in  the  distance  where  lies  the  Possible,  j 
th-it  his  mental  vision  is  weakened  and  dis- 
torted. Then  again  his  honor  is  of  a  home-  I 
spun  quality,  and  he  would  be  glad  to  shift  | 
it  for  one  of  superior  material,  on  the  plea 
that  every  man  must  better  himself  in  order 
to  better  others." 

"  Blue  and  crimson  he  would  change  it 
foi  —  just  what  I  thought,  and  suggested  to 
the  princess  —  she  was  exceedingly  angry, 
though  she  made  no  noise  —  I  saw  that." 

"  I  wonder  you  provoked  her,  it  was  surely 
not  worth  while,  even  had  you  been  one  of 
her  own  country,  and  a  subject  born  ;  for 
she  is  far  too  royal  in  her  nature's  essence, 
whatever  be  the  freaks  of  her  benevolence, 
to  punish  her  estate  —  never  would  she  ac- 
tually stoop." 

"  I  don't  clearly  see,"  said  Rodomant,  who 
did  not.  "  Of  course  she  would  never 
stoop,  because  the  loAvlier  she  descended  in 
rank,  the  loftier  she  would  be  raised  above 
it  in  herself;  it  was  quite  worth  while  to 
tell  her  what  I  kncM-  about  Porphyro,  for 
she  thought  too  well  of  him.  It  might 
make  her  miserable  without  cause  if  she  dis- 
covered her  mistake  too  late.  Therefore,  I 
do  not  understand  why  you  say  it  was  not 
worth  while." 

"  Because  she  would  not,  with  all  her  de- 
voted s|)irit,  her  ])assionate  singleness,  her 
proud  innocence,  mary-y  any  but  a  crowned 
head.  Love  she  might,  though  far  too  femi- 
nine, and  of  virtue  too  refined  to  retain  such 
love  even  in  its  least  degree,  after  the  claims 
of  one  legitimate  had  been  assumed  by  her." 

Just  like  other  men,  Rosuelo  settled  that 
the  princess  would  not  marry  any  man  in 
rank  below  her  own  —  because  she  had  dis- 
couraged himself!. 

Rodomant  made  his  eyes  look  owlish. 
"  Of  course  I  never  thought  she  would 
marry  any  but  a  crowned  head  ;  that  was 
exactly  the  reason  I  thought  she  might 
marry  Porphyro." 

Rosuelo  turned  on  him  one  of  those 
glances  that  combine  pity  for  ignorance, 
with  contempt  for  assumed  knowledge. 

"  Your  misconception  is  quite  natural.  Of 
course  you  heard  his  own  version  of  his  late 
failure  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  knoAV  that  he  had  ever  tried  in 
any  thing  to  succeed.  We  never  spoke  of 
what  is  called  his  political  offence,  though  I 
heard  others  speak  of  it,  but  could  not  even 
gain  the  initial  of  it." 

"  He  simply  desired  an  audience  in  pri- 
vate of  the  king ;  and  the  king  after  causing 
him  to  be  searched  and  found  unarmed,  al- 
lowed him  one,  in  which  he  requested  (and 
seemed  to  expect)  his  majesty  to  resign." 

"  To  him  -!-  of  course  ?  " 

'•  Not  the  crown,  so  he  pretended,  only 


what  maJces  the  crown  —  the  prerogative 
under  its  natural  restraint  from  without,  and 
its  seal  and  sign,  the  approbation  of  tht, 
people  —  even  that  he  denied,  wishing  t" 
take  to  himself,  or  to  transfer  to  any  one." 

"  The  princess  said  she  had  never  heard 
of  that  —  was  that  a  lie  ?  a  lie  on  lips  like 
hers  ?  " 

"  No  more  than  if  she  told  you  she 
did  not  believe  in  purgatory,  which  I  am 
sure  she  will  never  experience.  This  pre- 
tender took  care  to  sow  her  mind  so  thick 
with  germs  of  thoughts  and  dreams  most 
dear  to  her,  all  promising  for  harvest  the 
exaltation  and  happiness  of  humanity,  that 
he  left  no  room  for  prejudices  to  be  struck 
by  others.  I  also  believe  that  he  confided 
to  her  his  plans  without  their  name,  for 
there  are  two  ways  of  lying,  one  called  foul, 
the  other  fair  ;  the  first  is  to  substitute  false- 
hood for  fact ;  the  second  to  imjjly  a  little 
more,  or  confess  a  little  less  than  the  whole 
and  perfect  truth.  He  adopted  the  latter 
mode,  and  she  who  is  of  honor  like  snow 
under  its  first  crust  for  purity,  believed  him 
of  course.  She  does  believe  what  she  sees 
and  hears,  that  is  why  joy  has  never  blos- 
somed in  her  youth." 

"  I  can  scarcely  think,  however,  that  he 
meant  to  deceive  her  —  he  may  simply  with- 
hold his  final  intention  until  fulfilment,  to 
add  to  her  surjjrise,  perhaps  to  Avhat  he  fan- 
cies would  be  her  gratitude.  For  I  fancy  I 
can  trace,  under  that  iron  calm  of  his,  an 
arrogance  which  even  passion  would  not 
soften,  and  that  would  make  him  love  to 
raise  her,  not  for  love's  sake,  but  his  own. 
What  then  —  tell  me  —  what  is  his  destiny 
to  the  letter,  in  his  own  esteem  ?  " 

"  Of  course  it  is  obvious  —  he  harps  on 
the  idea  that  he  is  descended  from  Carlmag- 
nus,  which  is  just  possible,  though  I  believe 
it  not ;  —  but  to  adduce  such  a  fact,  even 
were  it  a  fact,  in  support  of  claims  that  held 
to  it  in  the  beginning,  is,  to  say  the  least,  a 
fault  in  Avorse  taste  than  the  crime  of  trea- 
son simple.  Wliy,  there  are  a  dozen  families 
in  any  civilized  country  who  might  put  forth 
as  clear  a  right  to  royalty,  being  at  the  foun- 
tain head,  not  traditionally  but  historically, 
of  royal  blood.  And  to  hint  at  such  facts 
as  claims,  even  in  the  heat  of  delirious  ambi- 
tion, is  to  commit  an  error  against  the  laws 
of  nature,  to  go  back  in  the  world's  being 
instead  of  forwards  —  moral  sorcery,  if  in- 
deed it  could  be  done." 

"  That  was,  I  suppose,  the  two-sided  of- 
fence —  to  believe  in  one's  descent  from  a 
dynasty  extinct,  and  to  desire  the  annihi- 
lation of  the  present,  pretending  unsel 
fish  motives.  What  part  he  means  to  pla^ 
in  process,  even  if  in  the  end  his  aims  suc- 
ceed, 1  cannot  think,  nor  how  the  people 
are  to  be  governed." 

"  The  trick  might  possibly  be  tried,  of  the 
elected  few,  as  was  once  played  and  swept 
into  anarchy's  quick  chaos.    It  might  so  hap« 


126 


RUMOR. 


{>5n,  but,  without  his  intervention  in  the 
necessary  progress  of  events,  and  if  Por- 
phyro  thinks  he  could  gain  control  even 
over  that  few,  I  fancy  him  mistaken  ;  there 
are  a  dozen  men  in  Parisinia,  whose  brains, 
if  capacity  were  in  the  ascendant,  might 
rule  the  world  —  they  have  also  not  only 
heads,  but  voices,  it  is  little  likely  they 
would  need  or  call  for  a  mouthpiece  such  as 
Ills.  A  person  so  deficient  in  intellectual 
habit,  and  so  limited  in  expression,  I  never 
saw.  If  ever  the  reii\s  were  put  between 
his  fingers,  it  would  be  as  though  you  or  I, 
or  any  other  not  trained  a  cavalier,  were 
bidden  to  break  a  horse  of  the  first  breed 
freshly  caught." 

"  That  is  in  the  blood  —  the  Arabs  are  not 
taught  except  by  nature  —  I  also  believe  I 
coidd  hold  a  horse  fast  myself,  and  make  it 
own  me.  However,  you  are  a  priest,  and  I 
have  as  good  as  lived  in  a  cloister  —  we 
both  differ,  and  either  of  us  may  be  right  or 
wrong.  /  believe,  that  if  that  man  asked 
tlie  king  to  resign,  he  ivill  resign,  without 
his  asking,  perhaps  ;  if  he  means  to  be  at 
the  head  of  the  few,  then  they  will  wake  up 
and  find  him  there ;  if  he  has  determined  he 
will  govern  all,  he  will  do  it,  but  not  as  the 


this  offender's  twin  brother  watched  for  the 
prince's  carriage  next  time  he  went  to  mass 
in  public  —  he  had  to  wait  a  month,  though 
that  was  an  extraordinary  instance,  to  return 
thanks  for  the  repression  of  the  rebellion 
that  had  hardly  breathed.  This  brother 
aimed  a  ]5istol-shot  at  the  prince,  and  Por- 
phyro,  who  was  on  horseback,  rushed  before 
the  window-glass  when  he  saw  the  man's 
arm  raised.  The  glass  being  shut,  tliere 
was  in  reality  little  fear,  except  for  the  glass 
itself,  and  further,  the  carriage  was  moving 
rapidly.  However,  it  happened,  fortunately 
for  Pcirphyro  that  the  shot  brushed  the  mar- 
gin of  his  hat,  so  that  there  was  at  least  a 
shoio  of  danger  averted  from  the  prince,  who 
exaggerated  it,  as  all  cowards  do,  and  who 
never  forgot  the  intervention.  For  he  knew 
full  well,  whatever  he  knows  not,  that  few 
indeed  would  interpose  their  bodies  between 
him  and  death,  except  those  paid,  and  Por- 
phyro  at  that  moment  had  not  been.  Once 
here,  I  mean  at  court,  he  ingratiated  himself 
as  subtly  as  an  infection  —  to  my  perception 
as  little  agreeably,  but  as  sure  ;  gave  ad- 
vices which  were  approved  but  never  fol- 
lowed, flattered  habits  he  did  not  personally 
adopt;  was  most  provedly  a  hypocrite,  un- 
princess  thinks.  For  he  is  famished,  dying  less  lie  was  a  solitary  exception,  and  detested 
of  thirst,  mad  in  the  core  of  perfect  sanity,  |  not  the  head  here.  Worst  of  all,  least  com- 
for  Fame  ;  what  he  considers  its  crowning  \  prehensible,  he  bewitched  her.  Well,  saint- 
heaven  as  well  as  its  ultimate  earth-point ;  !  esses  as  well  as  saints  were  tempted,  and 
and  that  is  not  what  you  would  consider  it,  |  angels  fell." 

nor  I.  If  it  were  the  imperial  idea  he  wished  j  "  If  so,"  said  Rodomant,  "  it  proves  at 
to  realize,  the  clouds  would  descend  from  i  least  that  the  fascination  of  ugliness  is  as 
the  sky  to  weave  purple  for  his  living  pall, ,  strong  as  the  power  of  beauty."  He  could 
and  the  stars  would  shape  a  crown  for  him,  j  aflord  to  say  this,  not  being  beautiful  him- 
did  man  refuse."  '  self  in  his  own  eyes. 

Rosuelo  shook  his  head  slowly,  but  was  I  "  I  believe,"  said  Rosuelo,  "  that  a  crea- 
evidently  careless  to  dispute  the  matter,  and  '  ture  such  as  she  —  if  there  ever  existed 
Rodomant  detected  his  weariness  of  that !  such  another  face  in  angelic  archetype,  does 
topic  —  changed  it  to  a  nearer  interest.  "  I  j  not  perceive  ugliness,  nor  is  subject  to  the 
cannot  understand  one  thing,  and  that  is,  antipathies  which  invade  the  senses  of  cpar. 
how  Porphyro  became  at  home  in  such  a  ser  beings.  That  man  attacked  her  in 
court  as  this  ;  a  person  without  parentage,  as 
they  represent  him." 

"  That  is  not  strictly  true  —  his  father  held 
an  insular  position,  and  his  mother  was  no- 
ble —  on  her  side  he  might  take  the  title  of 
count.  But  such  medium  rank  he  repudi- 
ates, he  never  would  adopt  it,  proof  most 
rational  of  all  thrit  he  requires  the  utmost, 
and  half  expects  it.  Still,  repudiating  the 
title,  he  did  not  renounce  the  privileges 
understood  by  it,  and  has  tried  the  i)ulse  of 
every  living  monarch  so  to  speak  —  few  even 
touch  thrones  from  such  a  distance,  and 
there  seems  a  fite  that  no  regnant  should 
resist  his  influence  ;  well,  it  is  true  that  cer- 
tain fishes  require  a  peculiar  bait.  He  was 
here,  somewhat  on  sufferance  for  a  time, 
still  on  a  visit  to  a  chief  nobleman  of  ours  ; 
and  during  that  space  chanced  one  of  the 
innumerable  emotions  of  the  people  that 
have  yet  reached  a  crisis.  Among  a  hun- 
dred arrests  or  so,  one  soldier  had  been  shot 
for  mutinous  grumbling  over  his  rations,  and 


princii)le  — an  abstraction  he  assured  her 
might  be  realized.  As  man  she  understands 
him,  perceives  him  not,  she  sees  ah  idea 
which  her  virgin  and  unbetrothed  will  as- 
serts to  be  his  image  —  that  is  all.  Could 
vou  see  her,  as  she  is  often,  and  perhaps  at 
this  very  instant,  you  would  not  be  aston- 
ished  that  ugliness,  as  you  call  it  —  that  is, 
the  impression  which  negatives  beauty  —  has 
over  her  little  or  no  power.  Her  senses 
seem  charmed  to  unconsciousness  in  the 
heart  which  embraces  all  humanity  ;  charity 
annihilates  her  tastes  —  otherwise,  frail  of 
body  as  she  is,  I  see  not  how  she  could  have 
ever  lived  so  long." 

"  'Where  is  she  at  this  moment,  then  ?  " 
The  thought  of  seeing  her  again  quickened 
into  yearning. 

"  In  one  of  the  prisons,  there  she  spends 
all  her  mornings,  a  day  for  each  in  turn, 
most  frequently  underground,  as  there  He 
the  criminals  whose  crimes  rise  highest  in 
their  intention,  and  who  are  the  hardliest 


RUMOR. 


127 


revenp;ed  upon  the  divine,  or  diabolical  right 
of  royalty. 

"  Well,"  said  Rodomant,  courageously, 
"  you  have  been  very  good  so  far,  and  have 
told  me  some  charming  little  episodes  of 
real  romance,  pray  crown  your  kindness, 
take  me  with  you  and  let  me  see  her,  how 
she  looks,  I  will  not  speak  to  her.  As  for 
doing  any  thing  else,  I  could  as  easily  write 
a  sonata  on  the  sky,  as  read  a  grammar  les- 
son, yet  I  promise  you  I  will  learn  double 
to-morrow,  treble  the  next  day,  and  so  on. 
My  memoiy  is  certainly  prodigious  —  Por- 
phyro  told  one  truth  there  for  all  his  lies. 
And  as  for  those  eternal  sentinels,  I  shall 
pack  up  the  books  and  carry  them  on  my 
shoulders,  and  just  you  tell  me  what  '  good 
day '  is  in  your  tongue,  and  I  shall  silence 
their  wonderment  with  it.  '  He  has  been 
learning  of  the  priest,'  they  will  say.  For 
of  course  the  priest  is  the  finest  scholar  in 
all  the  country." 

Whether,  out  of  routine,  even  a  man  of 
the  church  prefers  a  vision  of  his  material 
paradise,  as  even  to  the  wisest  among  the 
race  of  the  wise,  "  stolen  waters  "  were  the 
most  refreshing,  it  cannot  be  said ;  but  it  is 
certain  tliat  after  proper  resistance  to  the 
unruly  appeal,  Rosuelo  gave  in,  and  con- 
sented that  Rodomant  should  accompany 
liim  in  what  for  him  was  an  exceptional  visit 
in  the  forenoon.  Passing  the  long  wall  of 
the  convent,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  through 
corn-fields  bordered  with  shrubs,  full  of  fruit 
and  blossom  at  once,  brought  them  to  the 
city,  the  capital  of  the  princedom  of  Belvi- 
dere.  At  a  distance  it  lay  against  the  sky's 
deep  sapphire,  like  a  cluster  of  domed  pearls 
and  ruby-pointed  pinnacles ;  even  near  at 
hand  the  ruddy  brick  and  stainless  stone 
burned  rosily  and  dazzling  in  the  sun-pierced 
clarity  of  the  atmosphere,  close-blazing  upon 
noon.  Inside  the  gates,  true,  still  the  domes 
swelled  palpably,  and  the  spires  pointed  calm 
as  needles  cast  in  marble,  but  alike  too  much 
above  the  eye  gazing  onwards  in  suspense, 
til  attract  them  from  what  showed  at  hand 
aruund.  Close  streets,  like  lanes  of  London  ; 
unj.'aved,  dingy  roads,  paths  traceless,  dry.- 
seas  of  drifted  dust  all  baked  beneath  the 
burning  air,  struck  Rodomant  like  a  hard 
material  dream,  and  in  that  slow  furnace  he 
nearly  sM'ooned,  before  the  point  of  desire 
was  reached.  He  and  Rosuelo  seemed  the 
only  things  alive,  except  the  insects,  whose 
croM-ding  clouds  made  the  only  shade  between 
men  moving  and  the  sun — water-carriers 
were  flung  in  the  full  blaze  beside  their  ves- 
sels, and  fruit-sellers  watched  their  blooming 
perfumed  baskets  like  tinted  statues.  But  in 
the  hot,  quiet  town  at  length  Rosuelo  paused. 
There  was  a  low  thick  portal,  leading  to  an 
Immense  court-yard ;  they  entered  this,  and 
here  men  moved  in  plenty  —  the  eternal  sen- 
tries, as  Rodomant  called  them ;  even  they 
seemed  to  march  wound  up.  On  the  flags 
of  the  court-yard  the   sun    struck  cruelly; 


Rodomant  cast  his  eyes  wildly  around  for 
shade  —  there  was  none  all  over  the  numer- 
ous studding  windows,  and  their  innumerable 
thwarting  bars  —  and  gladly,  at  Rosuelo'8 
bidding,  he  rushed  into  what  was  the  twi- 
light glimmer  of  a  broad  stone  vault  —  the 
last  above  ground,  and  which  left  them  as 
they  touched  the  top  step  of  the  flight  that, 
when  the  door  was  closed  behind  them,  felt 
like  winding  blackness  ;  so  that  dizziness, 
together  with  the  dark,  would  have  unstead- 
ied  the  fii-mest  footsteps.  As  to  Rodomant, 
the  steep  and  tortuous  twists  were  hideous 
as  a  nightmare  in  the  chasm  which,  to  a  sen- 
sitive brain,  darkness  unmitigated  makes  ii 
being.  "  Why  did  you  not  bring  your  lan- 
tern ?  "  he  inquired,  feeling  at  the  same  time 
for  Rosuelo's  frock,  at  which  he  plucked  for 
safety,  to  convince  himself  he  still  could  feel. 
"  There  are  lights  below  already  —  this  is  not 
my  usual  time.  Here  we  are,"  he  added, 
and  truly  at  that  moment  Rodomant  touched 
straight  ground.  "  I  must  ask  you  not  to 
speak  nor  whisper,  and  do  not  go  too  near. 
I  will  bid  them  open  the  door  a  httle  way,  so 
that  you  can  see.  But  it  must  be  a  moment 
only ;  when  I  touch  your  arm  we  must 
return." 

Then  the  piiest  uttered  a  pass-word  in  his 
lowest  tone,  and  what  seemed  invisible  hands 
moved  rusilingly  ;  with  great,  though  almost 
noiseless  labor,  a  door,  which  was  but  a 
breach  in  a  wall  seven  feet  in  thickness, 
closed  rudely  by  a  mass  of  stone,  was  heaved 
back  about  a  foot.  Through  the  crack 
gushed  a  yellow  glimmer,  and  showed  to 
Rodomant  the  unfailing  sentinels,  looking 
like  mailed  ghosts,  as  they  glided  back  to 
their  dense  niches  outside  the  door,  and  there 
stood  motionless.  With  that  same  yellow 
glimmer  there  floated  outwards  an  unctuous, 
tepid  odor,  indescribable  for  its  disgust,  but 
loathsome  to  the  full  as  that  scent  of  corrup- 
tion after  death  which  we  shut,  on  its  first 
hint,  into  the  coffin.  Rodomant  was  so 
intensely  seasitive  to  it  that  his  first  impulse 
was  to  take  advantage  of  the  yellow  ray  and 
rush  up  stairs  —  it  actually  jjreoccupietl  liira 
to  the  exclusion  of  the  princess's  memory. 

"  Do  you  see  her  ?  "  asked  Rosuelo,  who 
was  behind  the  door,  in  the  faintest  whisper, 
and  the  question  recalled  to  him  —  what  P 
that  she,  of  her  own  choice  was  there,  and  in 
the  midst  of  That  whose  very  verge  of  dis- 
comfort he  found  it  so  hard  to  approach,  to 
which  his  strongest  effort  of  volition  only 
could  bind  him,  even  for  a  few  fleet  moments 
Still  sick  —  brain-sick  with  the  reeking  hu. 
man  odor,  heart-sick  with  the  labor  of  tlie 
pulse  in  che  airless  pressure,  he  strained  his 
eyes  —  dim  also  with  the  double  faintness  — 
to  pierce  the  unscattered  breath-mist  which 
forbade  pure  light  to  live  there  —  did  it  enter. 
Yet  torches  by  hundreds  were  hanging  from 
the  sides,  their  reflexes  blotched  widely  on 
the  universal  glaze  of  damp  which  lined  the 
walls,  and  the  rills  of  moisture  that  crawled 


128 


RUMOE. 


slowly  doM-n-nards  like  the  toad's  cold  trail. 
There  seemed  humh-eds  of  pallets,  or  rather 
beds,  for  thouffh  all  flung  upon  the  ground, 
not  one  was  without  its  pillow.  By  each 
pallet,  too,  there  seemed  a  woman,  each 
rohed  like  each  in  sad  and  solem  vesture  ; 
all  seemed  like  phantoms,  gleaming  stead- 
fastly within  a  dream  on  the  edge  of  awaken- 
ing—  a  conscious  dream.  But  there  ivas 
but  one  —  one  life,  one  heart,  one  soul,  for 
him  who  gazed ;  whose  dim  glance  as  it 
fixed  on  her  grew  clear,  whose  instinct  would 
have  isolated  her  amidst  the  whole  seven 
heavens  of  perfect  spirits.  Xot  his  alone 
perhaps  —  he  saw,  without  envy  in  that  hour, 
that  every  eye  fed  on  her,  devoured  her  ges- 
tures, drank  consolation  from  her  beauty  — 
the  true  use  of  beauty  given  to  woman. 
Eyes  sunk  so  deeply  that  they  seemed  but 
eyeless  sockets  —  eyes  glaring  with  the  black 
fii-e  of  fever  wrung  from  strength  —  eyes 
gleaming  like  pallid  meteors  from  hollow, 
half-skeleton  faces,  and  eyes  whose  owners, 
hapjjier  than  the  rest,  retained  the  softest 
instinct  of  humanity,  with  vision  shivered 
through  their  tears  ;  all  these  surveyed  her 
openly,  with  hunger  and  thirst  for  her  pres- 
ence —  she  shrunk  not  from  that  dread, 
intense  regard  —  hel])less  yet  safe  with  those 
stripped  of  all  law  but  that  of  gratitude  ; 
nor  from  their  contact  either.  For  as  many 
as  had  strength  to  crawl  had  kept  long  be- 
fore from  their  beds,  lay  all  about  her  feet, 
and  clutched  her  garment's  hem,  while  she 
bathed  a  wound  of  foulest  stench,  and  bound 
it,  smilingly,  caressingly,  as  a  tender  mother 
the  thorn-scratch  of  an  angry  rose  on  her 
nfant's  fi-agrant  skin.  Fresh  fruits  lay  in 
.heir  baskets  on  the  ground,  not  a  berry 
spoiled  ;  white  loaves  stood  there  uncut, 
and  l)ottles  through  which  the  wine,  untasted, 
blushed.  Rest,  from  her  own  forgotten  and 
conquered  Meanness,  dropped  sweeter  on 
their  souls  than  sleep,  and  every  wild,  unruly 
nature  found  its  home  in  her  world-embra- 
cing heart.  "  Oh,  that  I  were  one  of  them," 
said  Rodomant  to  himself,  "  then  were  I  not 
too  insignificant  to  be  loved." 

"  The  time  is  up,"  murmured  Rosuelo, 
and  touched  him  on  the  arm.  And  they  left 
h(;aven  below  them  under  the  ground,  to  miss 
'.t  in  the  light  of  day,  that  great  celestial 
uiystery  the  firmament,  and  the  solitude 
where  She  was  not. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

It  is  strange,  yet  common,  to  hear  this 
age  pi-onounced  the  least  romantic  that  has 
been  born  of  time.  To  call  it  the  most 
reasonable  were  not  to  lie,  for  ideas  the 
greatest,  and  aspirations  of  the  strongest 
tiight,  must  be  explained  and  realized  to  be 


understood,  or  shared  by  men  with  Man.  If 
adventure  and  invention    be  initials  of  Ro- 
mance, then  this  is  an  era  of  its  triumph, 
and  as  for  heroism,  its  grand   component, 
heroes  are  numbered  in  a  nameless  crowd, 
their  names  preserved  in  heaven,  too  many 
for  record  on  earth.     As   for   tragedy,   the 
second   element   of    romance,   its    inBuence 
whispers    in   a  universal   wail,   calm   under- 
current of  great  humanization's  encroaching 
tide.     Xor  does  it  appear  that  the   revela- 
tions of  science,  light  stronger  than  the  sun, 
nor  its  dreams,  fulfilled  in  iron,  have  lessened 
the    delight   of   mortality  in   art,  in   meta- 
physics, in  imaginations.     If  more  men  write 
verses,  fewer  men  make  poetry;  it  never  can 
grow  wild  as  weeds,  nor  be  trampled  under 
foot  so,  like  those  vain  scattered  stutterings 
of  the  former,  idiots  self-invested  with  the 
paper-crown.     If  many  more  breathe  sympa- 
thies with  themes  befitting  brotherhood  into 
the  ears  of  the  great  family,  as  many  hide 
their  selfish  feelings,  how  sweet  soever,  from 
the  world.     The  very  genius  of  the  period, 
late  crowned  with  success  more  perfect  than 
ever  was  doomed  to  man  —  the  genius  steam, 
'  is  as  beautiful  in  its  might  and  regularity  as 
the  type  it  engenders  —  self-command.     Its 
1  very  special   and   dominant   peculiarity   of 
]  forcing  men  into  involuntary  personal  con- 
nection with  each  other  has  foiled  to  wring 
from  a  single  bosom  its  secret,  either  of  bit- 
I  terness   or  bliss.     Some    such   thoughts   as 
•  these,  and  many  fancies   more,  too  fine  and 
■  fleetly  spent  for  words,  occupied  Lady  Deiu- 
'■  cy.  sitting  at  home  in  her  country  castle,  as 
!  isolated,  even  literally,  from  all  external  cir- 
j  cumstiince,  as  though  no  railway  spirit  shot 
I  hourly  across  the  land  its  level  of  dark  lines 
i  cut  through  the  rose-hung  hedges,  and  pa-^t 
I  the  surges  of  the  yellowing  wheat.    Then  its 
1  deep   tremendous  voice,  so  terribly  distinct 
1  in  frost,  so  mysteriously  distinct  all  seasons 
;  from  that  of  thunder  or  of  the  sea,  mixed  on 
1  this  mellow  morning  with   the   strong  warm 
rush  of  the  west  wind,  now  bringing  up  fast- 
flying  racks  of  clouds  to  bathe  the  bright 
earth  in   shadow,  now  sweeping   heaven   as 
clear  as  the  circle  of  a  stainless  shield.     The 
lady  who  sat  in  her  favorite  room'  saw  noth- 
ing  of    these   changes    upon   the   dayligh'. 
heard  nothing  of  the  voices  of  the  wind  and 
steam  ;   yet  was  she  not  idle  in  her  preoccu- 
pation, her  mind  was  indeed  busy  in  revmge 
for  the  freedom  of  her  hands  and  eyes.    Nor 
had  she  dropped  one  good,  nor  taken  up  one 
useless  habit  for  any  change  in  her  opinions 
or  disappointment  in  any  one  she  had  ever 
trusted  ;  and  she  possessed  the  virtue  so  rare 
and  excellent,  of  positively,  not  neutrally, 
forgiving  those  who  had  brought  her  pain, 
so  that  honestly  as  well  as  generously  she 
could  rejoice  with  them  or  weep.   That  there 
was   more  than  enough  romance  in  this  real 
world  she  knew — if  she  had  not  experienced ; 
bitterly  she  bemoaned  the  fate  of  those  in 
whom  no  commonplace  te**-s  of  discipline  or 


RUMOR. 


129 


disappointment  could  destroy  or  blunt  the 
sharp  and  fatal  sensihility  which  af^gravates 
trouble  to  torture,  while  it  heightens  to  ecsta- 
sy content.  Singularly  enough,  what  had 
made  her  heart  more  tender,  and  her  sympa- 
thy more  true  for  such,  had  done  for  her 
character  Avhat  no  previous  experience  had 
accomplished,  no  lesson  of  life  enforced. 
While  the  person  who  had  made  her  earth 
heaven,  in  all  but  the  fulfilment,  was  at 
peace  in  the  heart's  prosperity,  she  had  never 
felt  her  own  deep  fondness  falter,  her  un- 
claimed allegiance,  or  her  secret  faith.  But, 
once  beholding  him  alone  amidst  the  ruins 
of  his  happine^js,  the  crest  of  his  great  pride 
in  the  dust,  the  flower  of  his  love  torn  from 
its  bleeding  stem,  she  found  in  her  pity,  for 
her  passion  a  jjerfect  antidote,  an  enduring 
cure.  Perhaps  it  was  strangest  of  all,  that 
with  that  soft  passion  vanished  its  softer 
shadow  —  melancholy  ;  life  no  longer  a  bur- 
den, borne  for  love's  sake  alone,  became  at 
length  true  life  for  others  ;  her  sympathy  was 
warm,  not  a  s]iark  struck  by  benevolent  im- 
pulse from  colder  charity  ;  her  heart  opened 
with  her  hand.  As  for  the  wild  words,  whose 
error  the  hour  excused,  which  Diamid  Alba- 
ny dropi)ed  in  her  ear,  when  freshly  stung  by 
misery,  they  had  melted  from  her  memory  as 
though  unspoken,  the  very  ti-ne  she  met  Wm 
next,  when  he  came  to  her  for  the  help  which 
a  strong  man  will  only  take  from  a  woman, 
in  the  need  he  will  confess  to  her  alone.  To 
'ook  to  spiritual  causes,  which  form  regularly 
as  ihe  least  occult,  it  was,  of  course,  the  veiy 
fac  t  of  her  former  passion's  regeneration  into 
unmixed  love,  that  brought  the  heart  too 
strong  to  break  and  be  at  rest,  near  hers.  It 
was  now  but  the  bloom  of  July,  and  not  a 
year  since  Geraldine  had  left  her  husband, 
and  Rodomant  the  protection  of  his  first 
friend.  Of  both  these,  and  another,  whose 
interests  were  dearer  and  nearer  home,  she 
sat  and  mused.  More  precious  were  his 
interests  than  theirs,  for  reasons  which  ap- 
peared to  her  as  just  as  they  were  extraordi- 
nary, in  the  course  of  events.  When  Geral- 
dine left  England,  it  had  been  in  publicity's 
full  light ;  it  was  said  to  all  and  believed  by 
all,  save  those  who  had  seen  the  secret,  that 
shp  had  only  gone  to  Italy  for  a  season  on 
account  of  lier  sudden  illness.  Every  body 
except  the  immediate  circle  she  left,  and  the 
relation  to  whom  she  returned,  also  believed 
that  her  husband  accompanied  her,  it  being 
then  fuL  recess  ;  particularly  as  Albany  re- 
api)eared  after  Christmas  again  in  London, 
and  went  to  work  as  usual  in  the  tread-mill 
of  the  political  slave  and  aspirant.  But  when 
time  crept  on,  or  flew,  and  it  was  clearly  evi- 
dent that  he  never  left  England  nor  town  for 
a  dav  —  not  even  at  Easter  this  year  —  it 
began  to  be  surmised  —  was  whispered  — 
then  noised  about,  that  there  had  been  an 
actual  though  utterly  unaccountable  separa- 
tion—  unaccountable  because  Diamid's  de- 
fotion  to  his  young  wife   had  given  rise  to 


many  an  ignorant  comment  and  sickly  sneer. 
On  the  top  of  this  foundation-stone  for  ca- 
lumny, the  infraction  of  so  faultless  a  do- 
mestic system  as  that  of  England,  a  superb 
pyramid  in  honor  of  the  living  was  rapidly 
erected  ;  the  most  insignificant  facts,  the  vul- 
garest  little  anecdotes,  supplied  by  servants 
and  time-servers,  were  heaped  together,  and 
held  by  an  amalgam  of  aspersions,  too  care- 
fully or  carelessly  framed  for  libel.  The 
crown  or  apex  of  this  fine  moral  structure 
was  a  large  book,  which  appeared  so  season- 
ably that  it  seemed  actually  probable  it  had 
been  prepared  on  purpose  —  a  life  written 
without  authority  of  the  living,  a  memoir  as 
difTused  and  labored  as  ever  perpetuated  the 
true  or  fiilse  ftime  of  the  dead  —  an  anony- 
mous book,  a  bad  book  —  so  bad  that,  like 
an  arch-hypocrite,  it  deceived  its  own  author; 
and  when  it  had  been  greedily  perused  by  the 
just  and  the  unjust,  and  not  suppressed,  he 
drugged  his  conscience  with  the  flattering 
falsehood  that  he  had  done  not  only  his  duty, 
but  a  service  to  the  state  as  well  as  the  pub- 
Mc.  But  this  last  stone,  Avith  its  hieroglyphs 
well  graven  on  the  memories  to  whicli  they 
had  been  transferred,  was  but  just  placed  on 
its  height  —  the  pyramid,  when  lo  !  in  nine 
hours,  the  pyramid  was  as  though  it  existed 
not.  it  remained  to  be  regarded  no  more  than 
a  dust-heap  ;  the  doom  of  all  pyramids  that 
have  tried  to  touch  Heaven  these  modern 
times.  Still,  lies  once  imbibed  by  the  cruel 
or  the  dull  as  truths  —  those  who  love  them, 
or  love  not  the  Truth  itself,  soon  leaven  the 
life  they  entered ;  the  poison,  mixed  through 
the  whole  humanity,  alters  its  essence,  even 
renders  it,  like  that  poison-king  of  old,  capa- 
ble of  absorbing  falsehood  to  any  extent 
without  distrust  or  pain.  So  the  million  — 
that  vague  term  for  the  tares  among  the 
human  wheat  —  began  to  invent  theories  as 
to  Albany's  career,  and  criticisms  on  his 
character,  of  their  own  ;  and  not  only  such 
as  live  by  the  abominations  they  love,  did  ^o, 
but  men  of  re])uted  honor,  and  honesty  pro- 
fessed. Nothing  was  too  mean,  of  too  creep- 
ing an  insinuation,  to  be  grafted  on  the  real 
subtlety  which  distinguished  his  intelligence; 
no  fraud  too  monstrous  to  be  attributed  to 
his  yet  undeveloped  intention.  Did  he,  with 
the  oracular  simplicity  peculiar  to  great 
minds  of  large  experience,  utter  an  opinion 
—  finite  and  liable  to  error  as  are  all  those 
who  prophecy  by  precederit,  which,  in  God's 
system,  is  not  always  a  concomitant  of  man's 
— and  did  that  opinion  fail  to  fructify  in  fact, 
he  was  then  a  traitor  to  his  profession,  his 
utterance  had  been  a  designed  and  Avilful 
heresy,  he  had  but  spoken  to  hear  his  own 
voice,  to  silence  others  less  voluble,  per- 
chance less  arrogant,  that  he  miglit  amuse 
himself  by  scattering  the  poor  needles  of  nis 
sarcasm  like  a  sane,  not  a  mad  man,  fiinging 
fire.  The  most  respected  and  venerable 
chronicles  of  the  popular  press  originated, 
or  issued,  these  tirades,  pointless  but  lac«r- 


130 


RUMOR. 


ating  like  blunted  weapons.  Yet  not  one  of 
thosn  originators  or  issuers  failed  to  gorge 
with  curiosity  unsated  the  daily  supplies  of 
the  reporters  who  warmed  up  Albany's  im- 
pertinences of  the  night  almost  before  they 
were  cold  ;  and  there  was  not  a  reader  of  all 
the  myriads  which  pay  for  their  literary  ban- 
quets at  the  rate  of  a  penny  a  day,  who  did 
not  snatch  the  sheet  (dewy  from"  the  morn- 
ing press)  and  rend  it  ruthlessly  open  to 
p  junce  on  Albany's  speeches  —  or  on  his 
name,  when  it  stood,  as  it  did  so  often,  to 
varnish  the  leader  —  each  repetition  better 
thai  a  guinea  to  the  golden  editorial  pocket. 
Nor  did  a  noonday  breakfast,  on  porcelain 
sind  silver,  digest  in  any  instance  among 
those  little  people  called  "the  great,  without 
the  assistance  of  that  bitter  tonic,  Albany's 
undeserved  yet  inevitable  notoriety,  admin- 
istered in  the  morning  paper.  Xot  these 
strict  prints  alone  were  indebted  to  him  for 
displeasing  without  cause,  there  was  one 
organ  semi-literary,  and  half  of  ]xseudo-art, 
which  had  been  es"tablished  to  ridicule  rather 
than  satirize  each  thing  and  person  happen- 
ing to  relieve  the  monotony  or  scare  the  pro- 
priety of  the  social  system.  This  pictorial 
hornbook  for  the  grown-up  children,  from 
which  they  learned  to  magnify  the  little- 
nesses of  others,  and  scorn  the  "greatnesses, 
would  have  lieen  almost  as  forlornly  circum- 
stanced as  the  shadowless  man,  biit  for  Al- 
bany's existence.  Innumerable,  infinitesimal, 
kaleidoscopic,  were  the  representations  and 
misrepresentations  of  his  person,  his  phvsi- 
ognomy,  his  habit,  turn,  or  trick.  Their 
frequency  —  nay  constancy  of  recurrence, 
never  involved  a  failure  of  interest ;  un- 
swerving, fascinated,  universal,  that  at  least 
proved  one  species  of  consistency  in  its  vic- 
tim or  hero,  for  he  was  both. 

The  truth  was,  that  the  day,  nay,  the  very 
hour  in  which  Geraldine  left  her  husband 
with  her  parents,  her  doctors,  and  her  cousin 
Geraldi,  —  her  husband,  stricken  far  too  des- 

Eerately  to  resist  any  who  cared  enough  for 
is  sufferings  to  control  him,  went  quietly 
away  with  the  only  person  who  did  so  care. 
Lady  Delucy  asked  no  permission  of  his,  she 
took  him  —  he  might  have  been  an  idiot  in- 
fant, for  his  passivity  at  that  moment  —  to 
her  own  house.  And  there  she  kept  him 
perfectly  secure  in  the  devoted  secrecy,  — 
miracle  even  rarer  than  the  honor  of  one's 
friends,  — of  her  servants,  as  well,  of  course, 
as  that  of  her  only  child.  In  fact  it  is  no 
truism  —  truth's  counterfeit  and  foil.  —  to 
say  that  virtue  is  its  own  reward;  not  dumb 
and  sheeplike  harmlessness,  misdoing  never, 
doing  good  to  none  ;  but  sincere  and  active 
virtue,  naked  truth  clothed  on  with  kind- 
ness. The  servants  in  this  lady's  employ 
were  some  of  them  venerable  and  oracular 
gossips,  the  rest  inexperienced  and  greedy 
ones,  but  all  gossips.  Each  and  every  one 
of  them  knew  of  Diamid's  former  visit,  the 
4d  informed  the   young  who  had  not  wit- 


nessed, or  rather  known  of  them  in  the  first 
instance  ;  for  the  chief  of  them  had  been 
secretive  visits,  and  as,  of  course,  such  per- 
sons will,  they  concluded  them  romantic  and 
prelusive.  But  remembering  them  clearly, 
as  such  j)ersons  remember  only  such  facts, — 
clearly  as  Elizabeth  herself  recalled  ;  her  own 
child  held  her  not  more  sacred  or  more  inno- 
cent, than  in  her  care  for  Albany,  they  held 
their  mistress  now.  But  it  was  a  my><tery 
still,  and  as  such  appreciated,  guarded"  from 
all  other  houses  as  though  a  hint  of  it  might 
endanger  the  honor  of  that  they  served. 

It  was  well  for  Lady  Delucy  and  for  hex 
charge,  that  no  eye  but  hers  should  detect 
the  woe  which  had  fallen  on  this  ch'M  of 
superb  genius  and  guileless  heart.  It  was 
that  reality  of  suffering  which  is  stripped  of 
the  last  rag  of  romance,  shorn  of  the  last  ray 
of  poetry.  Desjiair  breathed  coldly  on  the 
invisible  life-bleeding  wounds  and  froze  them 
fast ;  existence  lay  about  the  soul  as  the  hard 
seas  of  the  eternal  ice,  a  monstrous  desola- 
tion like  the  infidel's  dream  of  death.  Lady 
Delucy  had  seen  the  gripe  of  nervous  torment 
whose  very  strength  imparts  strength  f  )r  en- 
durance ;  she  had  watched  the  fever-fire  lick 
dry  the  fountains  of  fresh  health  ;  had 
marked  the  doom  of  swift  disease,  life  divided 
from  death  by  a  spasm,  but  never  had  she 
witnessed  nor  imagined  this  man's  helpless 
and  hopeless  woe.  If  he  had  gone  mad  for 
a  while,  or  could  have  been  influenced  to 
sleep,  she  would  not  have  endured  for  him 
such  dismaying  wretchedness  ;  but  neither 
happened  ;  he  never  slumbered  either  day  or 
night  for  weeks,  nor  wandered  in  his  mind, 
nor  lost  physical  constraint.  Her  whole  na- 
ture was  bent  on  forcing  him  from  the  sub- 
ject to  which  he  never  alluded  by  word,  yet 
which  supplanted  every  other,  and  chained 
contemplation  to  itself  She  therefore  treated 
him  as  if  nothing  had  happened,  made  him 
take  her  in  to  dinner,  talked  to  him  so  that, 
before  Elizabeth  and  the  servants,  he  could 
not  but  answer ;  and  between  these  blissful 
banquets  she  read  or  played  to  him  —  even 
forced  him  to  ride  and  drive  with  her.  And 
this  awful  grief  of  his  —  fortunately  for  iiis 
character,  secretly  so  much  more  sensitive 
than  proud  —  never  changed  him  outwardly  ; 
he  had  been  worn  too  far  —  to  the  quick  ; 
for  years  inured  to  passion,  albeit  not  of  this 
form  and  pathos.  Certainly  his  hair  thinned, 
i  but  its  texture  was  too  fine  to  render  this  re- 
I  markable ;  and  if  its  raven  blackness  was 
'  thwarted  by  a  silvery  thread  or  two,  why  the 
I  world  said  he  was  getting  older,  that  a  man 
at  fifty  should  gracefully  resign  the  palm  of 
'  youth,  and  consign  his  last  vagary  to  oblivion. 
j  The  lady  had  intended  to  advise  his  return- 
\  ingto  face  affairs  and  men,  after  the  autumn- 
'  drought  and  winter-cold  had  added  change 
to  the  time  which  is  said  to  heal  all  wounds  ; 
but  he  anticipated  her,  left  her  abruptly, 
and,  except  in  public  she  had  never  seen  him 
since,  nor  had  he  written  to  her  until  this 


RU:\IOR. 


131 


day,  when  she  sat  with  her  hrightest  counte- 
nance at  the  table  whereon  lay  his  letter,  an- 
nouncing: his  intention  of  visitinp:  her  the 
moment  he  should  be  released  from  his  ser- 
vice—  that  is,  accordino^  to  immutable  and 
frloriou  ■  custom,  when  the  bloom  of  summer 
has  left  die  country  for  the  year. 

Now,  as  for  Geraldine,  a  word  or  two  here 
suffice.  Of  or  from  her.  Lady  Delucy  had 
never  heard  —  exce))t  from  her  servants  or 
throufjh  the  Court  Chronicle,  which  is  per- 
mitted gratis  to  advertise  the  movements  of 
the  great,  that  Geraldine,  so  far  from  being 
dead,  was  better,  even  likely  to  recovpr  — 
unless  she  should  risk  return  tc  a  climate 
less  benign.  Also,  being  a  fine,  but  not  a 
fashionable  noble,  she  had  neither  met  nor 
sought  to  meet  Geraldine's  parents  since 
their  return  from  Italy.  Hearing,  therefore, 
nothing  from  her  or  her  husband.  Lady  De- 
lucy concluded  her  to  have  so  entirely  amazed 
and  shocked  him,  that  he  held  not  with  her 
nor  would  allow  correspondence.  Under- 
standing him  little  there,  for  Diamid  with  his 
infallible  instinct,  the  scent  of  character, 
could  not  lose  it  or  lay  it  aside  for  any  men- 
tal or  moral  suffering  of  any  degi-ee,  it  being 
of  his  essence.  He  would  rather  have  been 
annihilated  —  he  did  cut  down  and  pluck  up 
by  its  roots  his  pride  —  before  he  would 
have  left  his  wife  unnoticed,  unaddressed,  to 
any  influence  which  might  injure  her  or  her 
final  peace.  And  knowing  her  still  tender 
youth,  he  was  aware  she  had  not  yet  been 
carried  to  the  point  of  life  from  which  we 
view  peace  of  conscience  as  precious,  even 
next  to  the  repose  of  love.  Then  if  he  sus- 
pected not  her  virtue  and  her  honor  —  there 
was  one  whom  he  suspected  of  neither  — 
Geraldi  of  the  fatal  temperament,  fatal  for  its 
owner,  and  fatal  for  those  it  succeeds  in  post- 
se.isi))r/  with  itself.  So  Diamid  first,  though 
privily,  wr^ite  to  the  physicians  and  parents, 
also  at  the  same  time  a  note  to  Geraldi,  this 
half-fatherly,  half-fraternal,  impressing  on 
him  in  the  very  request  that  he  would  en- 
deavor to  console  Geraldine  in  her  husband's 
absence,  the  fact  of  his  oum  sole  right  over 
the  boy's  cousin.  On  receiving  favorable  ac- 
counts from  the  two  first,  no  answer  from  the 
last,  he  wrote  to  Geraldine  herself,  kindly  but 
not  af  dently,  and  invited  her  to  wa-ite  to  him 
when  s  le  could  —  Avas  strong  enough,  that 
is  —  without  alluding  to,  or  allowing  in  his 
style,  the  cause  of  separation.  Geraldine 
neither  answered  that  letter  nor  Geraldi  for 
her,  nor  any  of  his  succeeding  letters,  regu- 
lar as  the  mails  themselves ;  still  he  wrote, 
and  took  care  to  ascertain  through  her  grand- 
mother, that  Geraldine  duly  received  his  com- 
munications. That  great  old  lady,  who  had 
disliked  the  marriage,  replied  to  his  inquiries 
as  coolly  as  was  consistent  with  respect  for 
her  own  side  of  the  connection  ;  and  this 
negative  insult,  so  bitter  to  one  of  his  blood, 
he  had  in  addition  to  endure.  So  among  all 
others,  his  affairs  stood  now. 


The  romance  of  life,  which  struck  Lady 
Delucy  as  so  real  and  evident,  was  not  only 
derived  from  her  inward  contemplation  ot 
the  tragedy  of  a  single  heart,  but  also  from 
the  impression  sudden  and  more  startling  of 
another  passion  crowned.  Besides  the  letter 
from  Albany  on  her  table,  lay  there  a  pile  of 
foreign  newspapers,  and  another  letter,  from 
a  former  friend  of  hers,  an  actress  then,  now 
married  and  living  with  her  husband  in  a 
lovely  villa,  on  the  near  borders  of  that  very 
earthly  pai-adise  which  to  Rodomant  had 
seemed  the  promised  land.  She  had  but 
glanced  through  that  letter  and  the  papers, 
after  breaking  Diamid's  seal :  his  words  pe- 
rused and  reperused,  she  returned  to  the  for- 
mer again  ;  and  was  reading  them  still  when 
Elizabeth  came  into  the  room,  and  gave  her 
mother  one  e  iger  intense  look  before  her  en- 
trance was  even  realized. 

"  Is  that  you.  dearest?"  asked  Lady  De- 
lucy, the  moment  she  became  conscious  of 
Elizabeth's  still  presence — still  as  her  step. 
Then  before  her  daughter  could  reply,  she 
went  on,  as  one  forced  to  carelessness  by 
great  anxiety.  "  I  am  so  grieved,  so  disa])- 
pointed,  that  we  have  no  letter  from  Charles, 
though  the  mail  is  in.  But  it  must  not 
make  us  too  apprehensive,  for  his  is  not  a 
lady's  pen,  and  you  heard  last  mail." 

"  Oh,"  answered  Elizabeth,  quietly,  "  the 
mail  is  in  ;  we  must  wait  for  the  next  I  sup- 
pose.    Have  you  looked  at  the  pajjers  ?  " 

'*  Not  the  ererj/  day  papers,  but  something 
better,  a  parcel  from  the  Condessa  Azulejo, 
after  going  through  which,  I  am  so  elevated 
that  I  feel  as  one  in  a  balloon  ;  I  can  never 
condescend  to  the  Times  this  day.  Truly 
history  is  stranger  than  story." 

"  My  dear  mother,  pray  enlighten  me," 
asked  Elizabeth,  in  a  tone  of  desperate  inter- 
est, sitting  down  behind  her  mother's  chair, 
and  seeming  to  see  over  her  shoulder. 

"  Read,  or  shall  I  ?  " 

"  Oh,  mamma,  pray,  you,  —  that  print  so 
dazzles  my  eyes,  really,  the  ink  is  but  a  shade 
darker  than  the  paper." 

"  And  the  jiaper  a  conglomerate  of  bank 
notes.  Nevertheless,  as  good  ink  and  paper 
as  Charles  uses;  I  wonder  what  he  did  with 
the  immense  quantity  of  both,  which  I  packed 
for  him." 

"  Gave  it  to  his  men  who  wanted  to  write 
to  their  wives,"  in  a  tone  of  jest,  yet  contain- 
ing fact,  still  with  that  extreme  quietude 
which  was  not  so  remarkable  in  Elizabeth  as 
an  excited  mood  had  been,  and  which  did 
not  strike  her  mother  as  being,  though  it 
was,  under  even  her  average  of  calm.  So 
Lady  Delucy  read,  in  the  rich  word-music  of 
Belvidere,  an  account,  special  and  minute  in 
degrees  most  unusual,  or  rather  quite  excep- 
tional, with  the  revelations  of  its  press ;  in 
fact,  a  full,  though  compressed  narrative  of 
Herman  Rodomant.  It  was  stated  that  .t 
had  been  drawn  up  to  satisfy  the  demands 
of  a  universal  and  ardent -curiosity,  concern- 


132 


EUMOR. 


ing,  said  the  -writer,  that  sovereign  genius, 
and  first  of  modern  artists,  and  care  had 
been  taken  to  gather  from  himself  alone  the 
circumstances  of  his  earlier  history  and  career 
at  its  commencement.  "'  And,"  added  Lady 
Delucy,  "  I  must  say  for  him,  that  though  he 
disappointed  me,  he  had  deceived  no  one 
else,  only  leading  facts  are  given,  and  each  is 
correct.  Fancy,  Elizabeth,  their  fancying 
they  could  make  Ilodomant  reveal  his  inner 
life.  I  am  glad  he  has  not  done  so,  his  re- 
serve is  intact ;  but  there  is  just  what  he 
told  me  himself,  his  boyhood  and  youth,  his 
meeting  us  ;  he  has  been  generous  enough 
to  insert  the  story  of  Alarcos,  and  obstinate 
enough  to  give  our  name,  which,  for  a  won- 
der, they  have  spelt  right.  But  what  follows 
is  amazing  to  me,  for  I  never  fancied  genius 
to  be  a  goose  with  golden  eggs.  Yet  he  had 
crept  into  the  golden  centre  of  power,  fash- 
ion, and  pride  —  the  very  life-speck  of  that 
tiny  world  of  Brobdignagian  dignities.  Set- 
tled in  the  very  palace,  glove  in  glove  with  the 
prince ;  and  the  princess  —  that  surprises 
me  most  of  all — has  constituted  him  her 
cabinet  musician  ;  that  alone  a  great  salary 
I  know,  for  I  remember  the  condessa  saying 
how  she  grudged  it." 

True,  that  the  princess  grudged  giving  a 
great  salary  to  the  musicians,  overpaid  al- 
ready by  her  father  —  for  sycophancies 
rather  than  art-services  which  'mocked  the 
name  —  as,  to  use  again  the  inevitable  art- 
slang,  Rodomant  was  the  first  classician  ever 
accepted  in  the  offices  he  held.  The  prin- 
cess had  grudged  throwing  money  to  the 
rich  and  incompetent,  while  so  many  deso- 
late and  hungry  souls  crowded  in  vaults 
and  dungeons  under  the  pavement  of  her 
father's  capital.  But  Lady  Delucy  knew  as 
little  of  the  foreign  royal  woman  as  women 
in  this  country  ganerally  know  of  their  alien 
sisters  —  a  cosmopolitan  in  the  gender  fem- 
inine perhaps  exists  not  —  quite  a  right  and 
natural  deficiency,  if  woman  should  be  ex- 
clusively domestic. 

"  Then,"  adied  the  lady,  "  he  is  also  cab- 
inet composer  to  the  prince,  pianist,  organ- 
ist, director,  and  editor  —  what  means  that  ? 
—  of  the  prince's  operas ;  and  they  have 
given  him  —  oh  !  I  cannot  count  the  orders. 
I  never  could  have  believed  Rodomant 
would  wear  orders."     Nor  did  he. 

"  What  is  inexplicable,  and  I  fancy  a 
catch-franco  fit,  is  that  they  assert  he  was 
introduced  at  the  Belviderian  court  by  that 
nondescript  adventurer,  Porphyro.  That  I 
cannot  believe  —  the  court  is  sewn  up  and 
chained  down  with  precedent  —  haughtiness 
is  a  disease  with  it.  And  Porphyro  is  not 
only  no  one,  but  is  a  vulgarian  neuter  ; 
never  beheld  I  a  man  with  so  common-place 
a  countenance.  I  saw  him  in  London,  at  a 
play  which  he  no  more  seemed  aifected  by 
than  if  he  had  been  stone  blind  and  deaf. 
But  never  mind  about  the  introduction,  Rod- 
omant  is   there,  and   there   seems   nothing 


more  for  him  to  do  but  sit  still  and  write. 
What  quantities  he  has  written  —  nctw  was 
it  all  put  down?  —  these  endless  sonatas,  his 
own  original  idea,  liis  initial  —  how  divine 
the  first  one  was  !  A  hst  of  his  composi- 
tions for  the  church  —  alas!  '«  has  ratted 
to  the  Catholics  -  -  a  new  mass  once  a 
month,  pretty  well.  Songs,  not  so  many  of 
them  as  formerly ;  I  am  glad  of  it ;  his 
princedom  is  orchestra.  Last,  and  best,  his 
new  opera.  Worst  for  us,  though,  as  we 
can  neither  see  nor  hear  it  till  the  prince 
chooses  to  let  it  breathe  beyond  his  own 
theatre.  He  will  not  even  grant  it  to  his 
subjects,  except  the  court.  And  in  another 
part  of  the  paper  they  crush  him  with  flat- 
teries, smother  him  with  incense  —  the 
))rince,  I  mean.  And  what  horrors  I  read 
of  him  in  our  Times  yesterday."  At  this 
point  the  lady  made  a  long  pause.  Eliz- 
abeth desperately  again  put  in,  — 

"  I  cannot  fancy  how  Rodomant  would  get 
on  in  such  a  court  as  that,  with  its  absurd 
and  awful  etiquettes.  I  should  have  thought 
he  would  have  been  beheaded  after  his  first 
bow,  if  he  made  one,  so  sure  he  would  be  to 
do  it  against  the  etiquettes,  of  which  there 
are  so  many  for  the  simplest  action." 

"  A  series  of  masks,  shifted  every  mo- 
ment. There  are  two  ways  of  contriving  to 
prolong  existence  in  such  a  case  ;  either  to 
fulfil  each  letter  of  etiquette,  exaggerate 
every  conservative  cipher,  or  to  let  both 
alone  altogether,  to  fidfil  7ione.  Few  can  do 
this,  if  not  gracefully,  even  successfully ; 
but  I  fancy  Rodomant  to  be  just  the  one. 
And  for  his  punishment  —  they  would  con- 
sider a  musician,  of  whatever  caste,  too  in- 
significant to  punish,  unless  his  crime  were 
capital ;  for  instance,  to  attempt  the  life  of 
the  prince,  or  brush  the  dress  of  his  daugh- 
ter. Then  with  all  his  eccentricity,  Rod- 
omant is  fiiultlessly  well-bred  ;  his  rough- 
nesses are  those  of  the  uncut  diamond,  or 
the  quartz,  sparkling  with  its  gold." 

"He  is  restored  to  your  favor  then, 
mamma  ? " 

"  He  never  lost  it,  my  love.  It  was  only 
my  passion  for  candor  that  he  pained." 

But  the  very  fact  that  he  had  not  ceased 
to  interest  her  proved  she  did  not  really 
believe  he  had  deceived  her  meaningly  ;  yet 
she  was  not  aware  of  this  latter  fact. 

"  The  dazzling  description  has  put  some- 
thing aside  I  wanted  to  tell  you.  Diamid  is 
coming  to  stay  here,  in  our  house,  not  his 
own,  next  month." 

No  hesitation  on  her  own  part  now,  nor 
suspicious  glance  on  Elizabeth's  ;  with  the 
death  of  her  life's  long  dream,  her  daugh- 
ter's idea  of  its  existence  had  also  died  nat- 
urally. No  love,  save  mutual  love,  endures 
the  test  of  time  —  how  much  less  expands 
into  the  soul's  eternity  ! 


RUMOR. 


133 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

"  I  AM  very  glad,"  said  Elizabeth,  with 
the  first  reoZ  "interest  she  had  felt,  though 
shown  not  so  desperately  as  the  false.  Her 
mother,  having  read  her  news  till  they 
were  doomed  waste  paper,  now  turned  to 
look  at  her  daugl^er,  for  the  first  time  won- 
dering why  she  sat  behind  her  rather  than 
at  her  side.  Had  she  looked  but  an  instant 
earli-jr,  she  would  have  seen  Elizabeth  paler 
thai  ever  in  her  severest  spells  of  delicacy. 
Nju  she  had  never  beheld  her  crims.oned 
vtitb  so  warm  a  blush.  And  the  mother, 
who  knew  not  that  the  daughter's  old  sus- 
picion had  died,  thought  her  child  was 
blushing  for  her  ;  no  need  to  make  a  boast 
of  natural  instinct  or  acquired  penetration, 
when  self-consciousness,  finer  than  both 
their  influences,  so. often  causes  them  to  err. 
Elizabeth  saw  this,  more  acutely  sensitive  to 
all  impressions  which  fell  on  her  that  morn- 
ing than  ever  in  her  life  before.  And  the 
pleasure  she  expressed  in  Albany's  an- 
nounced visit  was  more  than  t%vice  as  deeply 
felt.  Strange  and  spiritual,  when  most  ter- 
rible, are  the  crises  of  pasiiion,  of  which 
some  experiences  count  only  one,  some 
many,  but  cdl  only  one  supreme.  Eliz- 
abeth's had  arrived  this  day. 

It  has  been  said  accurately,  if  not  logi- 
cally, that  ])arent8  should  not  watch  too 
closely,  that  is,  openly,  for  the  child's  cog- 
nizance, its  health  ;  that  such  a  habit  entails 
almost  invariable  depression  of  the  system, 
self-detected  in  the  requisition  for  anxiety. 
It  is  quite  as  true  that  a  parent  should  not 
too  curiously  pry  into  the  jjrogress  of  the 
moral  Hie,  how  strictly  soever  he  or  she 
should  induct  the  child  into  the  rules  which 
make  goodness  beauty.  And  it  is  certain 
that  parents  who  exert,  in  either  case,  such 
over-vigilance,  succeed  far  less  in  winning 
filial  confidence  than  those  parents  whose 
devotion  is  at  once  more  impulsive  and  dis- 
creet. Lady  Delucy  had  the  maternal  in- 
stinct in  its  perfection,  but  the  only  child 
who  came  to  claim  it  was  the  offspring  of  a 
husband  she  had  not  loved  ;  therefore  her 
maternal  instinct,  except  for  the  cradle 
liours,  was  of  no  actual  use.  This  mother 
o^-ed  her  daughter  as  she  deserved,  but 
undei  itood  her  not,  for  she  had  understood 
her  child's  father  without  loving  him.  Did 
we  choose  to  examine  secret  facts,  which 
reveal  themselves  for  those  who  take  the 
pains  to  search,  we  should  find  inevitably, 
perhaps  without  exception,  retribution 
weighed  in  the  balances  with  desert,  the 
scales  equal  —  side  by  side. 

Whether  Lady  Delucy  was  right  in  for- 
bidding her  daughter  to  marry  and  go  to 
India  in  her  first  youth,  because  of  delicate 
health,  may  be  questioned.  She  meant  to 
be  ;  but  the  higher  wisdom  wanting,  blind 
instinct  acted  in  the  dark,  and  failed.  She 
employed  not  her  intellect  to  decide,  know- 


ing not  that  it  was  her  duty  to  call  it  intd 
requisition  for  judgment  between  her  owr 
child  am  other  girls  of  tender  age  and 
health.  &he  little  ."Ireamed,  though  she 
ought  to  have  known,  that  for  Elizabeth 
sus])ense  and  separation  from  her  lover  were 
infinitely  more  wearing,  and  likely  to  de- 
crease her  strength,  than  the  most  ruthless 
hardihood  imposed  upon  the  wife  of  a 
soldier  of  Charles  Lyonhart's  rank  ;  nor 
that  such  a  position,  under  protection  of  the 
trusted  of  her  soul,  would  brace  her  being 
into  something  more  neroic  than  physical 
athletism.  Also  the  mother  forgot,  or  did 
not  learn,  that  the  strongest  constitutions 
are  often  soonest  stricken  beneath  a  stress 
of  climate. 

Little  guessed  the  mother — blind  instinct 
at  fault  again  —  the  cause  of  the  child's  des- 
perate interest  —  feigned  sudden  from  unm- 
terest  below  zero  —  her  unseen  paleness, 
witnessed  blush,  energy  of  a])probation. 
Elizabeth  had  the  love  for  her  lover  which 
is  loveliest  unseen  —  except  by  him.  He 
alone  treads  the  path  to  knowledge  of  her 
character,  he  only  wings  his  longings  to  her 
heart  —  perhaps  he  alone  and  only  cares  to 
know  and  love  her.  Her  mother  had  never 
comprehended  her  daughter's  first  and  soli- 
tary passion  for  the  young  soldier,  for  the 
humanly  selfish  reason  that  she  would  never 
have  loved  him  herself.  But  she  never  re- 
fused Elizabeth  any  thing,  except  what  she 
believed  would  do  her  harm ;  and  there 
really  was  no  stain  upon  scutcheon  or  char- 
acter of  LyonTiart,  both  were  blazoned  on  a 
fair  face  —  honor  and  innocence.  So,  as  a 
natural  consequence,  Elizabeth  exulted  in 
that  non-appreciation  of  him  who  was  to  her 
so  infinitely  precious,  she  possessed  him 
only,  not  only  to  love  but  to  admire  ;  he  was 
her  heroic  ideal,  as  well  as  the  darling  of  her 
heart ;  when  he  was  with  her,  her  life  lacked 
nothing.  But  -when  he  went,  Elizabeth,  ac- 
tually, though  the  notion  by  the  greatly 
knowing  may  be  scorned,  might  have  claimed 
the  crown  of  martyrdom  more  justly  than 
many  of  those  who  are  therewith  invested 
by  their  fellow-men.  Her  soul's  light  dark- 
ened drearily  as  twilight  under  cloud,  no 
moon  behind  it  —  at  last  went  out  in  hei. 
Her  heart's  happiness  flagged  pulse  by  pulst, 
then  stopped ;  she  was  bewildered  in  the 
impenetrable  loneliness,  appalled  at  its  mys. 
terious  blank,  yet  remained  as  calm  and 
natural  of  demeanor,  as  though  all  light  and 
gladness  kept  jieace  within.  And  a  source 
of  trouble  was  hers,  which  those  women 
who  love  men  of  her  lover's  type  can  only 
understand,  for  it  i«  reserved  for  them  alone. 
He,  worse  off'  if  possible  than  she,  he  who 
had  nearly  choked  himself  with  swallowing 
strong  tears  for  more  than  a  month  after 
their  farewell,  and  whose  solitary  great  ])as- 
sion  mastered  him  not,  only  because  its  mis- 
tress so  gentle  and  so  tender  might  require 
in  its  futiu-e  an  indomitable  support — he 


V 


134 


RUMOR. 


could  not,  unhappily  for  himself,  more  un- 
happily for  her,  express  himself  in  words, 
especially  in  writing.  His  letters  to  Eliza- 
beth nearly  maddened  her,  not  that  they 
■were  few  —  he  wrote  hy  every  mail  —  but 
they  were  brief  as  his  orders  to  his  men, 
and  as  to  the  likelihood  of  his  confiding  his 
sweet  feelings  to  the  winds  and  waves,  he 
•would  as  soon  have  so  perilled  Elizabeth. 
He  had  the  quality  which  forces  all  the  mar- 
tial qualities  to  cohere  —  endurance  to  a 
fault,  or  rather  in  virtuous  excess  ;  so  he 
never  complained  —  he  hoped,  perhaps 
hniged,  but  never  hinted  at  nor  acknowledged 
faith's  deep  yearning.  He  had  besides  had 
to  ex])erience  what  a  mind  of  his  cast  dreads 
more  than  danger  in  full  encounter  —  idle- 
ness, the  still  life  of  the  soldier.  His  regi- 
ment, summoned  suddenly  to  a  spot  far  in 
the  burning  land,  where  mutinous  premoni- 
tions had  aroused  the  suspicions  of  the  lion 
of  the  north,  arrived  there  when  they  were 
for  a  M'hile  hushed  utterly,  as  prophecies  be- 
fore fulfilment ;  there  was  in  fact  a  dead  lull 
—  save  for  parade,  play,  and  sleep,  life 
would  have  been  a  waking  dream,  Lyon- 
hart  was  chafed  by  this  quiescent  inutility, 
as  few  among  his  equals  or  inferiors  in  the 
ranks,  as,  unfortunately  for  his  enjoyment, 
how  happily  soever  for  his  rectitude  so  dear 
to  him,  he  had  not  the  slightest  pleasure  in 
commonplace  recreations,  nor  in  dissipa- 
tions commoner  or  lower  yet.  Neither  could 
he  study  ;  practical  warfare  was  his  brain's 
one  theory,  science,  and  preoccupation. 
Elizabeth's  letters  were  indeed  as  draughts 
of  fresh  water  sweetened  with  nectar  for  the 
spirit  in  his  desert ;  but  it  is  as  sad  a  truth 
a.s  tender,  that,  for  every  token  of  earthhj 
lo7e  received,  one  looks  and  asks  for  more  ; 
yet  those  letters  he  wore  next  his  heart  by 
day,  and  they  softened  his  pillow  at  night. 

As  Lady  Delucy  imagined,  the  mail  for 
the  first  time  that  morning  had  brought  Eliz- 
abeth no  letter.  Now,  had  it  not  been  for 
Rodomant,  Lady  Delucy  would  have  rum- 
maged the  English  as  well  as  foreign  news, 
for  political  or  personal  hints  of  Diamid  Al- 
bany also,  for  affairs  of  India.  The  day 
before  she  had  noticed  the  telegram  that  the 
mail  was  in ;  she  therefore  expected  letters 
this  day,  and  to  her  apprehension  there  were 
none.  Now  by  the  magnetic  prescience 
which,  instead  of  being  blind  like  instinct, 
sees  without  eyes,  Eliziibeth  had  dreamed 
horrid  dreams  all  through  that  night  of  ex- 
pectation—  dreams  "confused"  as  that  arch- 
epithet  for  every  battle  of  the  warrior,  "rolled 
in  blood."  So,  waking  hot  and  feverish,  the 
fever  made  her  strong ;  at  six  o'clock  she 
rose  —  a  feat  she  had  never  executed  in  her 
existence  —  and  walked  to  the  post-house, 
just  a  mile  beyond  the  park ;  there  she  re- 
ceived her  letter ;  so  happened  it  that  none 
went  to  Northeden  in  the  bag.  As  she  turned 
to  go  home,  she  tore  it  open  ;  her  fears  were 
Jcattered  by  a  worse  reality.  Mutiny,  sudden 


as  hurricane,  and  as  strong :  Lyonhart's  regi  •  i 
ment,  the  only  one  at  the  station  which  was  | 
the  centre  of  the  mortal  agitation  —  three 
regiments  having  left  it  the  week  before  for 
positions  that  seemed  less  safe  and  peaceful. 
No  dream  was  it,  therefore,  that  now  he  was 
in  strict  sense  a  warrior,  pressed  on,  urged 
forward  by  dangers  which,  to  her  heart,  more 
than  her  imagination,  seemed  a  million  \\\e\- 
itable  deaths.  Now  came  the  crisis  which 
crushed  her  woman's  weakness  under  the 
will  of  love  —  strong,  determinate,  less  pas- 
sionate than  loving  now.  Loving  him  alone, 
loved  and  needed  supremely  by  him  only,  her 
way  was  towards  him ;  it  lay  vivid  to  her  ap- 
prehension as  one  line  of  moonlight  stretch- 
ing across  a  trackless  sea,  yet  cast  from  a 
moonless  sky  —  all  dark  on  earth  and  in 
heaven  besides.  Thought,  whose  steps  are 
swifter  than  the  electric  wings ;  fancy,  more 
instant  than  the  opening  and  shutting  of  the 
lightning's  eye,  already  swe])t  her  soul  to  the 
embrace  of  his  ;  but  the  body,  useless  with- 
out the  soul,  yet  needful  to  it,  must  follow 
too.  Therefore,  calmly  as  quickly  she  Avalked 
home  —  was  not  fatigued,  because  she  felt 
not  so  —  calmly  more  than  all  through  her 
quiet  life,  she  sought  her  mother's  side  ;  re- 
solved, strong,  secretive,  as  is  nothing  —  no 
being  —  like  a  woman  in  her  love  and  love's 
intention.  She  went  to  her  mother,  not  to 
bid  her  listen  to  her  love's  intention,  nor  to 
soften  the  bitterness  of  parting  for  either  of 
them  by  one  embrace  to  be  remembered ; 
only  to  search  for  the  official  announcement 
of  the  outbreak  mentioned  in  her  letter,  as 
though  the  news  M'ere  too  terrible  to  be  truth 
unless  in  print.  She  took  up  the  paper,  even 
while  her  mother  was  speaking  ;  yet  heard 
all  her  mother  said  through  all,  and  an- 
swered. There  stood  the  crushing  capitals 
—  The  Indian  Carnage — war  in  the  prov- 
ince which  contained  her  world  and  hope. 
Alas !  for  the  loving  ones  of  all  the  many, 
whose  hearts  go  out  of  them  towards  that 
far  country  !  When  her  mother,  at  last,  had 
finished  speaking  (she  conscientiously  stood 
still  till  then)  Elizabeth  went  away,  carrying 
the  paper  with  her.  Her  mother  began  to  write 
a  long  letter  to  Diamid  Albany  ;  her  daugh- 
ter went  straight  to  her  own  room,  there  to 
take  the  first  step  of  the  path  shining  clearly 
before  her  —  out,  out,  out !  till  she  fell  upon 
his  neck,  or  took  him  to  her  bosom.  There 
had  not  been  the  deliberation  of  the  twink- 
ling of  an  eye,  not  a  self-questioning  spoken 
in  a  single  breath,  nor  hesitant  dread  dis- 
persed in  one  short  sigh ;  the  birth  of  her 
decision  was  immediate,  and  it  was  born  full- 
grown.  This  was,  of  course,  to  leave  Eng- 
land ;  to  go  straight,  or  crooked,  any  way 
the  shortest,  to  India  —  and  to  go  alone  ; 
this  girl  who  had  never  taken  an  airing  in  a 
private  carriage  without  her  mother,  and 
whose  whole  knowledge  of  the  chances  and* 
certain  fatigues  of  travel  was  an  ideal  one  — ■  . 
therefore,  of  positive  disservice.     To  do  hei 


RUMOR. 


135 


justice,  it  was  no  sickly  or  omantic  notion 
of  concealment  from  her  mother  which  made 
her  resolve  to  go  alone  and  independently, 
though  her  project  seemed  glorious  in  its 
very  terror,  from  the  anticipation  of  such 
solitary  devotion;  but  she  had  a  peculiar 
pride,  rarely  shown,  and  almost  as  seldom 
roused.  She  knew  her  mother  cared  as  little 
as  possible  for  her  future  son,  as  one  of  so 
warm  a  heart  and  instinctive  a  conscience 
could,  and  she  did  not,  actually,  feel  justified 
in  exposing  her  mother  to  exile  from  a  genial 
home  and  country  clear  of  peril.  At  all 
events,  her  mind  made  up,  nothing  in  heaven 
or  earth  could  change  her  course,  or  retard 
its  progress  one  unnecessary  moment ;  for 
she  thought  not  of  death  —  that  seemed  an- 
nihilated for  Iter,  nor  of  the  possible  event  of 
illness  —  that  slie  would  not  acknowledge,  if 
it  chanced.  This  very  determination  on  her 
part  resulted  from  a  like  ignorance  of  her 
mother  to  that  mother's  ignorance  of  her. 
Both  sprung  from  the  same  deep  unimagined 
cause.  Their  constant  love,  and  untiring 
mutu  j1  confidence,  when  there  were  no  secrets 
to  confide,  had  been  more  like  the  endeared 
haliit  of  faithful  and  fondest  friendship,  into 
which  the  filial  feeling  —  not  the  instinct, 
that  remained  intact,  only  in  the  dark  —  had 
passed  with  the  passing  of  infancy,  as  the 
Wind  maternal  one  had  done.  Therefore, 
fond  and  faithful  as  these  two  hearts  Avere, 
they  perpetually  erred  as  to  each  other's 
minds  and  motives  ;  not  so  as  to  disappoint 
affection,  only  to  baffle  the  wisdom  which  to 
nature  belongs  by  nature,  as  much  as  love. 

Elizabeth,  with  her  heart  strung  to  a  pitch 
of  heroism  the  world  would  have  called 
quixotic,  determined  not  to  take  her  maid, 
because  that  person  was  a  member  of  her 
mother's  household.  As  to  money,  she  al- 
ways had  more  than  she  could  possibly  spend, 
for  her  mother  could  not  bear  her  either  to 
want  means  or  to  have  to  ask  for  them.  Also, 
though  she  was  not  of  age,  she  felt  clearly 
that  the  money  was  her  own.  As  for  her 
mother's  innumerable  presents,  and  her  trin- 
kets, heaps  of  vanity  as  she  termed  them, 
lying  drug-like  in  the  drawers  and  boxes  — 
those  being  drugs,  also  jiot  clearly  her  own, 
she  left  behind.  Sewing  bank-notes  into 
every  available  corner  of  her  raiment,  and 
di-essing  herself  in  the  style  now  adopted 
universally  by  women  highjy-bred,  for  coun- 
try walking  —  stout  slips,  thick  boots,  brown 
hats,  and  robes  of  dust-color  —  she  went 
down  to  luncheon.  Seeing  her  so  dressed, 
her  mother  naturally  inquired  was  she  going 
to  take  a  long  ramble  ?  and,  quite  conscien- 
tiously, Elizabeth  could  answer,  yes.  Lady 
Deiucy  was  enchanted  ;  seldom,  indeed,  since 
her  escort  had  left  England,  had  Elizabeth 
gone  beyond  the  park ;  and  her  mother,  like 
all  mothers,  considered  the  will  and  poM-er 
to  effect  a  long  walk,  as  a  proof  of  health's 
maximum  in  her  offspring.  So,  directly  after 
wncheon  —  she  was  prudent  enough  to  eat  a 


good  one  —  Elizabeth  crossed  the  park  by 
the  shortest  cut,  and  went  across  the  field- 
paths  between  the  hedges,  to  the  station. 
By  the  officials  planted  on  the  platform  she 
was  known  and  noticed,  in  their  vacuum  of 
conversational  topics  ;  yet  though  they  had 
never  espied  her  walknig  or  alone  before, 
they  concluded  she  might  be  going  to  the 
next  station  only.  Not  so,  however,  Avhsn 
she  produced  her  ticket  —  but  then  it  was 
too  late  for  their  regard  or  remonstrance, 
for  she  would  not  gpt  into  the  train  until  it 
was  on  the  point  of  starting.  So,  locked 
into  the  coupe  of  an  express,  which  half-car- 
riage she  had  to  herself,  she  went  to  London. 
Safe  in  all  respects  she  knew  herself  to  be, 
because  her  mother  would  not  miss  nor  in- 
quire about  her  till  dinner-time,  before  which 
hour  she  was  in  town.  Her  absolute  inex- 
perience saved  her  from  the  shadoM'  of  an 
alarm,  which  so  often  produces  misadven- 
ture ;  and  before  she  went  on  further,  yiow 
unknown,  unnoticed  in  the  everlasting  crowd, 
she  sent  a  telegram  to  Northeden,  to  he  for- 
warded on  to  her  mother,  simply  announcing 
that  she  was  safe  and  well,  and  would  write 
the  next  day  herself,  explaining  all.  For  her 
strong  excitement  in  behalf  of  Lyonhart 
rendered  her  so  cold  to  all  impression  else, 
that  it  never  struck  her  her  mother  could  be 
anxious,  knowing  her  safe  and  well  —  never 
flitted  across  her  fancy  that  it  was  possible 
her  mother  would  misinterpret  her  words,  or 
doubt  her  intention,  and  her  deeds.  Still 
throughout  this  calm  of  confidence,  prudence 
lurked  under  love,  concealed,  but  acted  indi- 
rectly, else  Elizabeth  need  not  have  walked 
—  or  rather  been  swept  by  the  crowd  oft"  the 
platform  —  nor  have  walked  on  afterwards 
some  distance,  instead  of  stepping  into  one 
of  the  conveyances,  which  are  patent  to  de- 
tectives at  the  station. 

When  Elizabeth's  maid  knocked  at  her 
mother's  door  at  dressing  time  to  inquire 
whether  her  young  lady  were  closeted  there, 
as  chanced  so  often,  Lady  Delucy  was  aston- 
ished, not  yet  alarmed  —  the  message  had 
not  reached  her.  And  though  surprised,  she 
soon  sank  into  self-congratulation  on  her 
daughter's  rallying  powers  of  volition  and  of 
limb.  Then,  she  might  have  gone  to  see  the 
new  church  rising  in  mediaeval  proportions 
for  the  next  hamlet ;  in  such  case  she  had 
doubtless  rested  under  some  little  homestead 
or  roof-bush ;  all  such  for  miles  and  miles 
recognized  the  mother  and  daughter.  It 
was  still  warm  and  light.  But  scarcely  more 
than  cool  if  balmy  twilight  when,  after  wait- 
ing for  her  an  hour,  the  mother  realized 
something  beyond  the  fact  that  the  child 
was  long  and  late  —  namely,  that  she  her- 
self was  anxious  and  stricken  sudden  with 
presentiment.  Through  the  thick  mist  of 
apprehension  concealing  the  actual  presage, 
struck  clear  as  lightning  the  fact  upon  the 
conscience.  "  Never  should  I  have  allowed 
her  to  go  alone."    All   the   servants  were 


136 


ivUMOR, 


called  up,  each  one  despatc'ied  in  a  different 
direction,  this  to  one  vilhige,  that  to  another, 
a  third  to  the  canal,  a  fourth  to  the  chalk- 
pit, a  fifth  and  sixth  to  the  railway  station, 
and  the  inn  where  yet  loomed  coach-house- 
nichrd,  a  statue  or  two  of  grand  post-chaises. 
For  the  rest,  they  went  all  ways  unlikely,  as 
the  first  set  had  taken  every  likely  path,  all 
exce])t  one,  the  oldest  —  he  who  had  been  so 
scared  at  Rodomant  on  his  first  appearance ; 
and  he  was  ordered  to  keep  watch  at  the 
door  to  catch  the  first  gleam  of  the  missing 
one's  return,  as  she  might  enter  the  gates  of 
the  lodge.  Yet  there  was  a  fear  additional 
dropped  on  the  mother's  heart  b\  the  fact, 
soon  ascertained,  that  by  the  lodge  gates 
Elizabeth  had  not  passed  out. 

The  mother,  in  the  rosy  deepening  dusk, 
walked  wildly  up  and  down  the  hall  —  what- 
ever her  suspense,  its  first  phase  was  not 
prolonged.  About  ten  minutes  passed,  when 
she  heard  a  cry,  turned,  as  she  had  her  back 
to  the  door,  and  saw  the  old  man  rushing 
down  the  steps.  Far  swifter  of  foot  and 
yearning  than  himself,  she  overtook  him, 
expecting  to  have  Elizabeth  in  her  arms. 
Nothing,  nothing,  except  a  strip  of  white 
paper,  waved  bj'  a  stout  horseman's  arm. 
The  message  !  She  guessed  it,  snatched  at 
it,  and  with  poring  eyes,  detected  the  mean- 
ing at  a  glance  for  all  the  official  scrawl. 
What  had  been  indited  in  perfect  innocence, 
was  too  innocent  to  seem  so.  Lady  Delucy 
was  transfixed  at  once  through  her  mother's 
and  her  woman's  heart  with  an  anguish 
sharper  than  the  trouble  of  her  love. 
Through  her  mother's  heart,  with  a  sting- 
ing sense  of  the  child's  ingratitude,  through 
her  woman's,  with  a  naked  and  remorseless 
pang  —  had  the  child  forsworn  the  names 
which  are  the  crown  of  woman,  constancy 
and  honor  in  her  affiance  ?  Said  the  old 
servant,  sorrowfully,  for  through  his  vision, 
dimmed  at  once  with  age  and  tears,  he  de- 
tected the  doulile-edged  woe  which  wounded 
the  woman  and  the  mother  :  "  My  young 
lady  has  gone  alone,  no  one  stood  to  meet 
her  at  the  station."  But  ignorance  handles 
consolation  so  that  it  shall  more  hurt  than 
heal.  Worst  of  all.  to  go  alone.  For  what 
motive  ?  none  that  could  serve  her  to  re- 
main alo)ie,  she  must  be  alone  no  longer 
now  —  alas,  with  whom  ?  No  reclamation, 
not  even  hope  of  any  further  intelligence 
until  the  morrow  —  the  mother  chained  to 
the  rock  of  hard  reality,  the  fetters  riveted 
by  the  child's  own  hand.  Standing,  rooted 
l)y  her  suspense,  under  the  old  trees  in  the 
evening,  the  mother  went  back  through  life 
in  a  blaze  of  recollection,  just  as  those 
describe,  who  are,  or  are  on  the  point  of, 
])erishing  by  shipwreck,  or  fire,  or  other 
death  clad  in  sudden  and  strong  calamity. 
In  that  full  light  —  cruelly  brilliant,  horribly 
intense  —  every  fact,  event,  and  incident, 
each  item  of  circumstance,  of  which  it  took 
hundreds  to  make  up  one  memory  wherein 


her  child  was  concerned,  or  she  concerned 
with  her  child,  the  mother  surveyed,  hel 
natural  lucidity  of  brain  and  tranquil  tem- 
perament serving  to  make  the  pain  more 
present,  the  terror  more  distinct.  Yfit, 
when  she  tried  in  all  this  glitter  and  atmos- 
phere of  remembrance  to  fix  on  one  p'>int 
which  should  either  explain  or  pall'ate  the 
blame  of  that  hour ;  when  sh"  tried  to  per- 
ceive whether  it  was  mutual  or  single,  she 
became  as  it  were  blind.  Yet  one  sad  cer- 
tainty seemed  clear,  that  Elizabeth's  calm 
and  reticence  of  conduct,  through  all  the 
months  since  she  parted  with  her  lover,  had 
been  not  assumed  —  no  veil  to  cloak  hei 
passion  or  her  suspense  in  separation  ;  they 
had  been  simple,  real  indications  of  honest 
—  no,  dishonest  —  but  real  indifference. 
And  at  thought  of  the  hypocrisy  which  her 
child  must  have  played  out  in  presence  of 
her  lover,  the  mother  grew  sick  ;  the  stain 
upon  the  woman's  living  name  smhched  the 
scutcheon  of  the  buried  father.  Last  of  all, 
ignorant  and  uninquiring,  as  all  are  of  that 
subject,  at  once  the  simplest  and  the  most 
inscrutable,  the  mother  neither  recognized 
nor  suspected  the  true  cause  of  her  child's 
unchild-like,  or  her  own  unmaternal  con- 
duct —  the  cause  M'hich  alienates  the  child 
from  the  parent,  renders  the  parent  unjust 
to  the  child  —  a  marriage  not  made  ia 
heaven. 

While  Lady  Delucy  still  stood  under  the 
trees  her  old  servant  came  again  ;  again 
brought  word  fresh-gathered  from  the  peo- 
ple at  the  station,  that  Elizabeth  had  not 
only  gone  without  a  gentleman,  but  without 
luggage,  even  a  single  packet.  This  seemed 
to  seal  the  fact  that  some  one  she  must 
have  met,  for  the  mother  knew  the  child's 
luxurious  necessities  and  habits  ;  long  and 
long  must  the  infiuence  have  been  at  work 
to  persuade  her,  not  only  to  leave  her 
home,  her  mother,  her  lover's  soul  in  ab- 
sence, but  to  leave  them  positively  to  run 
in  debt  to  another,  not  only  for  luxury,  but 
for  necessity  —  for  the  commonplace  pro- 
tection which  the  false  husband  never  ex- 
tends —  or  with  exceptions  an  age  apart ; 
the  protection  of  home,  property,  every  per- 
sonal attribute  ou  his  part,  extending  over 
the  simple,  unembarrassed  self  of  the  woman 
given  up  to  him.  In  vain  now  for  the  old 
servant  to  linger,  with  liberty  unprece- 
dented, taking  leave  to  point  out  the  mer- 
cies of  the  dispensation  —  how,  as  the  young 
lady  had  gone  alone,  without  gentleman  or 
luggage,  it  could  be  nothing  to  hurt  the 
feelings  of  the  colonel.  How  she  must  have 
gone  to  my  lady's  town-house,  —  perliaps 
the  colonel  had  arrived  there,  and  had  sent 
her  a  letter  by  the  telegraph.  This  last  hint 
did  really  seem  worth  acting  on.  Instantly 
a  message  was  despatched  to  the  town- 
house  —  despatched  by  Lady  Delucy  her 
very  self,  and  she  waited  in  her  carriage  fol 
the  reply.    It    came    thi-ough    the    house. 


RUMOR. 


137 


Keeper,  formal  in  the  midst  of  its  surprise  — 
aead  respectful  ;  oh,  the  ice-daggers  of  con- 
ventionalism, when  they  strike  through  the 
fire  of  that  slowest  of  the  purifiers  —  sus- 
pense. Eli^aheth  had  neither  been  seen 
nor  heard  of  in  her  only  London  home. 
This  last  chance  spent,  Lady  Delucy  had 
actually,  not  Actively,  to  sit  still.  If  she 
went  any  where  she  might  miss  the  letter, 
if  she  became  overwrought  to  illness  she 
night  become  useless  if  required  to  move 
afterwards  ;  there  was  nothing  to  be  done,  as 
in  the  case  of  sudden  death,  an  accident,  or 
a  chaise  and  four  to  Gretna.  She  sat  up  all 
night,  a  feat  her  even  health  and  unstrained 
nerves  permitted ;  by  verj-  bright  lights 
thrice  in  the  night  she  wrote  to  Lyonhart, 
and  thrice  burned  them,  for  the  simple  rea- 
son that,  beyond  the  fact  of  her  wild  anxiety 
she  had  nothing  to  assed.  At  morning, 
whose  first  blue  glimmer  had  seemed  to  her 
watchful  eyes  a  sign  of  hope,  no  hope  came, 
no  letter,  therefore,  from  London,  none  that 
day.  Then,  and  only  then,  the  fact  returned 
on  her,  that  Elizabeth  had  said  she  would 
vrite  that  day,  so  that  a  letter,  if  written, 
could  not  reach  her  till  the  morrow,  and 
might  not  then.  So  she  had  still  to  rest 
and  wait  in  the  suspense  of  unknown  calam- 
ity ;  since  the  old  days  of  her  youth,  when 
revilers  had  persecuted  her  own  innocence, 
she  had  known  no  such  bitterness  —  that 
had  been  tu'  as  a  foretaste,  in  one  drop,  of 
the  full  draught  forced  upon  her  now. 

Meantime  Elizabeth,  quite  at  ease  in  con- 
science, was  too  ardently  and  minutely  occu- 
pied to  retiect  a  single  moment  backicards, 
as  it  were  ;  her  one  fear  yet  lingered,  that  it 
was  possible  her  mother  might  guess  whither 
she  had  gone  and  her  design  —  and,  naturad 
result  of  her  solicitude  —  desire  to  accom- 
pany her  daughter.  The  fear  even  touched 
on  terror  of  detention,  of  recall,  or  of  paren- 
tal command  such  as  never  had  issued  from 
lips  whose  authority,  even  in  this  instance, 
Elizabeth  preferred  to  ignore  rather  than  re- 
sist. That  fear,  this  shade  of  terror,  she 
endeavored  to  annihilate  in  her  ener?etic 
preoccupation,  fully  requii-ed  indeed,  if  she 
were  to  set  forth  that  fortnight.  And  deli- 
cate nerves,  never  yet  strained  upon,  will 
seem  to  carry  youth  and  love  through  exploit 
ar.i  adventure  —  fatigue,  even  such  as  strong 
nerves  shattered  can  only  shrink  from  in 
desp-iir — even  at  their  contemplation.  First, 
knowing  that  no  business  transactions  take 
place  after  the  dinner  hour  of  official  gentle- 
men, she  drove  to  a  hotel  —  the  only  one  she 
knew,  where  she  had  occasionally  passed  an 
hour  or  two  in  visiting  friends  of  her  mother 
who  just  lighted  on  London  for  a  day  or 
two,  and  had  taken  wing  again.  None  knew 
her  —  the  human  Nile  was  too  full,  too 
strong,  and  too  incessantly  renewed,  not  to 
cover  perfectly  her  name  and  character. 
That  evening,  through  the  agency  of  the 
Undiadv,  stirred  up  at  once  by  curiosity 
IS 


I  and  a  boon  as  hard  as  it  wa.s  sweet  —  a 
gift  in  money  of  course,  Elizabeth  was  too 
ignorant  to  invent  a  less  suspicious  bribe  — 
that  very  night  she  possessed  a  maid,  or  rather 
a  waiting-woman,  of  middle  age,  for  it  had 
suddenly  struck  the  maiden,  the  moment  she 

I  realized  the  bare  fact  that  she  must  face  men 
in  her  arrangements,  that  it  would  be  more 
agreeable  and  more  due  to  her  mother's 
chUd,  to  have  a  companion  somewhat  older 
than  herself.  As  for  her  own  rank,  she  es- 
chewed her  title  —  that  of  her  mother  also 

—  as  particularly  dangerous,  and  called  her- 
self, a  style  quakeresque  which  never  struck 
her  on  its  assumption  —  Elizabeth  Home. 
But  this  ntyle  sen'ed  her  somewhat  less  than 
a  lady's  ordinary  one  in  mid-society,  tht 
unfailing  Miss,  to  secure  her  ordinary-  at- 
tentions on  the  part  of  her  new  retainer. 
Extraordinary  ones  it  certainly  bestowed  on 
her  —  that   person,  whether  accustomed   to 

;  the  sphere  of  the  toilette,  the  study-nursery, 
or  the  humble-companionship  to  the  arro- 
gant-in-little, undertook  and  commenced  to 
carry  forth  the  operations  of  all  three,  and 
1  demanded  —  clear-seeing  that  she  might 
j  obtain  —  wages  embracing  the  triple  salary 
i  of  such.  Li  the  morning  she  dressed  Eliia- 
beth,  but  at  the  same  time  asserted  there 
was  no  time  for  dressing  hair,  so  cleverly 
,  conceaUng  her  ignorance  of  any  patent  pro- 
cess ;  she  also  instructed  —  that  part  of  her 
extemporaneous  duty  was  so  acceptable  to 
her  employer  that  its  impropriety  escaped 
detection  —  she  instructed,  or  rather  ordered, 
Elizabeth  where  to  go  for  her  outfit,  (her 
own  also,)  and  how  to  prociore  the  swiftest 
passage — overland  of  course.  Besides  hand- 
I  ling  and  dictation,  she  held  fast  on  her  mis- 
I  tress  —  the  companion  either  rose  to  the 
employer,  or  the  employer  sank  to  the  level 
of  the  companion.  Side  by  side,  seat  by 
seat,  not  arm  in  arm  —  because  some  instinct 
upheld  Elizabeth  in  the  determination  to 
keep  her  mud-colored  robe  out  of  the  mud 

—  they  went  about  all  day.  In  cabs  and  out 
of  cabs,  over  city-stones,  which  for  her  pre- 
vious experience  might  have  remained  mjthic 
golden  ones,  in  the  depths  of  those  west  end 
marts  of  universally  adapted  clothing,  which 
make  one  realize  the  census  better  than  all 
its  fianires,  Elizabeth  was  accompanied  by  the 
leech-like  liege,  her  sovereign  servanL  By 
night,  her  departure  was  arranged  ;  she  had 

j  intended  it  should  have  been  actively  begun, 
but  was  consoled  by  the  fact  placed  before 
I  her  that  day,  that  had  she  been  in  town 
j  only  twelve  hours  later,  she  could  not  have 
departed  for  fourteen  days.  Remembering 
her  word  to  her  mother,  she  wrote  a  line,  or 
rather  two  lines  this  time,  still  saying  she 
I  was  safe,  well,  and  would  write  on  the  mor- 
{ row,  concluding  with  love  this  time.  Of 
j  course,  the  note,  despatched  by  the  night- 
1  post,  and  reaching  Xortheden  duly,  gave 
much  more  pain  than  pleasure,  and  the  con- 
;  elusion  seemed  a  mockery  on  the  child's  paxt; 


138 


RUMOR. 


that  day  the  mother  wept,  which  she  had  not 
allowed  herself  to  do  before.  While  she 
was  weeping,  alone  of  course,  Elizabeth 
rather  worse  off,  now  all  was  settled,  than  if 
alone,  was  on  the  Southampton  line :  that 
afternoon  she  was  on  board  a  vessel  for 
Alexandria  ;  she  aspired  that  evening  to  be 
gone  ;  but  no,  it  was  Sunday,  and  the 
steamer  sailed  not  till  one  o'clock  next  day. 
Fearfully,  while  waiting,  did  the  sense  of 
ho]ie  decline  to  that  of  weariness  —  a  Sab- 
bath so  weary  seemed  to  extinguish  even  the 
hope  of  rest,  or  wish  for  it ;  a  longing  for 
excitement,  continuous,  buoyant,  even  of 
danger  to  be  faced,  rather  "than  the  sick 
thought  of  rest  —  possessed  her.  The  two 
places  taken  had  been  the  last,  therefore, 
though  overpaid  for,  were  quite  the  worst ; 
and  this  daughter  of  luxury,  as  well  as  rest, 
had  no  idea  how  much  of  her  discomfort  and 
dispirit  arose  from  facts,  l)are,  modern,  and 
nauseous-smelling  facts,  around  her.  How- 
ever, one  advantage  sprang  from  this  drear 
annoyance ;  she  hul  time  to  write  fully  to  her 
mother,  and  she  did  so,  for  the  first  time  un- 
veiling her  whole  mind,  as  well  as  outpouring 
her  heart,  a  blessing  for  her  mother,  without 
which  she  might,  perhaps,  never  have  rallied 
to  her  nature's  complete  healthfulness.  The 
long  Sunday  night  spent,  the  dawn  fully 
brightened ;  the  vessel  filled  like  an  im- 
mense beehive  ;  every  cell  had  its  inmate, 
and  as  it  seemed,  there  was  a  crowd  on  deck 
to  whom  no  cells  were  portioned.  At  twelve 
o'clock  the  last  farewells  were  breathed  from 
lip  to  lip,  the  last  letters  carried  on  shore  -^ 
Elizabeth's  with  the  rest  —  safe  in  its  direc- 
tion now.  And  to  that  address,  spied  by  her 
hireling,  she  perhaps  owed  that  she  was  not 
maltreated  or  despoiled  beyond  all  remedy, 
before  she  reached  the  desert. 

Never  fell  a  shock  more  sharp  and  sudden 
on  a  mother's  nature  than  this  letter  —  sud- 
den because  utterly  a  surpiise  as  to  its  con- 
tents, sharp  in  the  excessive  revulsion  of  the 
blow,  which  at  once  annihilating  any  fault 
or  imprudence  of  the  child  in  the  eyes  of  the 
mother,  flung  the  whole  weight  of  blame 
back  on  herself.  Once  certain  that  her  daugh- 
ter was  faithful  in  her  life's  affiance,  no  other 
charge  signified,  nor  could  exist,  least  of  all 
that  of  ingratitude  to  her  mother ;  this 
mood's  reaction  well  exhibiting  the  enthusi- 
asm which  had  lingered  beyond  youth  —  a 
youth  to  the  life's  end.  Of  course  this  en- 
thusiasm also  lent  impulse  to  conviction ; 
there  was  but  one  course  —  to  follow  in- 
stantly —  if  not  to  reach  her  at  the  first  or 
second  stages,  which  might  be  possible  — 
yet  to  be  constantly  so  near  behind  her,  that 
they  should  meet  almost  instantly  in  India's 
capital.  After  all,  the  worst  part  of  the 
lourney  was  after  that  point,  and  by  her  inti- 
mate acquaintance  with  various  persons  of 
position  in  Calcutta  —  through  her  husband 
—  she  hoped  at  least  to  lodge  a  message 
for    her    daughter    in    that    place,    which 


should  detain  her  there  in  waiting  for  ner 
mother. 

Happily  for  Lady  Delucy,  she  was  a  favor- 
ite through  her  young  unmarried  character, 
as  well  as  her  marrier)  ^ank,  with  an  old  no- 
bleman of  dilletantesque  niarme  taste  —  per- 
ha])s  the  most  unusual  —  as  the  fresihwatel 
mania  is  one  of  the  most  common.  He  waa 
possessed  of  a  steam-craft  of  exquisite 
beauty,  the  size  of  the  largest  yacht ;  this 
sea-bird  flew  on  canvas-wings  besides  steam. 
In  it  the  owner  had  voyaged,  across  the  great 
mild  ocean,  to  South  Australia ;  it  was,  there- 
fore, well  tested  as  well-tempered.  Fortu- 
nately for  Lady  Delucy,  it  was  lying  now  at 
Saijbath  in  a  fairy  bay  of  Wight ;  thither  she 
went  instantly,  or  rather  to  the  owner's 
dwelling,  overlooking  the  blue  sea  and  the 
brooding  "  Halcyon."  In  such  a  cause  she 
hesitated  not  to  request  its  loan ;  engaging 
and  determined  to  fit  it  for  instant  voyage 
herself.  The  request  was  granted  —  not 
easily  though  —  for  the  owner  expressed 
conscientious  scruples  about  such  a  vessel  in 
such  a  voyage,  as  short  and  difficult  as  the 
antipodal  one  had  been  long  and  safe.  But 
the  mother  conquered ;  in  a  few  hours  the 
yacht  was  manned,  provisioned,  commanded, 
and  poised  for  flight  —  her  speed  justified 
the  term.  The  owner  led  the  lady  on  board, 
and  bade  her  God-speed ;  would  fain  have 
accompanied  her,  but  that  his  escort  was  de- 
terminately  rejected.  Just  as  they  stood  to- 
gether to  say  farewell,  the  captain  leaped  on 
board;  late,  to  the  lady's  impatient  "fancy, 
and,  in  fact,  retarded  by  a  sudden  rumor 
brushihg  past  his  ear  on  shore  —  a  rumor 
which  those  who  staid  at  home  soon 
learned  as  real.  A  revolution  burst  out  in 
Parisinia —  the  king  of  Iris,  for  life's  sake 
eschewing  etiquette  —  (of  course  escaping 
Britain-wards)  had  reached  the  Enghsh 
shore. 


CHAPTER  XXVL 

Of  the  fatal  grief  she  had  caused,  how  far 
was  Geraldine  actually  guilty?  Stranger 
than  all  the  schemes  proven  by  the  schocil- 
man  and  visioned  by  the  poet,  is  the  jjhiloso- 
phy  of  Sin ;  its  laws  and  jjhases  as  truly  and 
fixedly  set  as  its  ends,  in  the  appointed  retri- 
bution ;  yet,  just  as  no  man  could  righteously 
apportion  this,  so  no  human  mind  can  decide 
upon  the  kind  or  degree  of  man's  :  H'ence 
against  the  great  rule  harmonizing  axi  life, 
all  things,  utterly  —  perfect  love  to  God  and 
man.  Well,  indeed,  for  one  and  all,  for  the 
strongest  and  the  weakest,  the  murderer  and 
the  liar,  with  the  impatient  and  the  vain  — 
that  man  is  not  the  judge,  and  th;it  only 
One,  seeing  not  as  man  sees,  can  detect  the 
cause,  minute  or  mighty,  whose  effects  man 
only  grasps  at.     Well  mdeed  for  al\  that  if 


RUMOR. 


139 


ran  condemns  —  from,  his  little  experimental 
knowledge  settles  and  prescribes  finite  pun- 
ishment "to  his  brethren  who  offend  against 
him  (even  to  the  violent  and  premature  ex- 
tinction of  mortal  life) — the  great  Father 
receives  the  Si)irit ;  and  in  His  hand,  which 
infolds  the  universe,  is  Mercy  infinite  and 
Judgment  only,  fixeA. 

One  or  two'of  those  among  men,  who  may 
each  justly  be  named  an  individual  charac- 
ter, have  fastened  on  and  brought  to  light 
great  discoveries,  after  intense  and  patient 
toil ;  discoveries  of  which  the  greatest  as  the 
least,  are  temporarily  beneficial  only.  Na- 
ture, violated  by  disease,  has  its  tortures 
tranquillized  by  old  wanderiirg  mysteries 
restored  to  science  newly;  madness  these 
times  is  charmed,  not  scorpion-whipped ; 
idiocy  is  mechanically  elevated,  made  nearly 
ornamental,  if  scarcely  useful,  in  the  domes- 
tic pictm-e ;  fresh  or  forgotten  medicines 
bring  antidotes  for  new  or  revived  symp- 
toms: physical  malformation,  distortion, 
deterioration  by  accident,  find  in  ceaseless 
inventions  anc'  palliatives  every  refinement 
of  substitution  or  relief.  Even  the  suffer- 
ings of  Children  —  that  host  deepening  rank 
by  rank  backwards,  age  by  age  into  the  old 
Time  before  us,  which  first  crowned  Inno- 
cence with  martyrdom  —  are  beginning,  only 
beginning  —  (men  are  too  grown-up  to  com- 
prehend them  quickly)  —  to  be  looked  into  ; 
the  account  may  some  day  be  clearly  made 
out,  and  settled.  It  is  said  that  the  progress 
of  moral  improvement  and  spiritual  direction 
upwards,  is  equally  on  the  advance.  This  is 
impossible  ;  man  as  a  race  is  too  selfish,  his 
health  of  body  and  mind  shut  out  the  future 
of  death,  shut  in  the  spiritual  life  ;  time  and 
tlie  necessary  alternations  of  Work  and  Pas- 
sion are  too  preoccupying.  Then  of  all  the 
thousands  given  up,  as  they  conscientiously 
imagine,  to  the  instruction  and  elevation  of 
their  kind,  only  one  or  two  in  every  thou- 
sand, possess  great  hearts  and  teeming  minds 
in  bodies  at  once  strong  and  sympathetic 
sufficiently,  to  influence  as  a  reaUiij,  the  soul. 
Certainly,  the  vigilance  of  the  many  who, 
from  jirotected  birth,  restrained  habit,  lack 
of  temptation,  have  a  character  intact  before 
the  world,  is  a  valuable  agent  to  protect  lim- 
ited society  from  general  revolution ;  yet, 
crime  jn-evented  in  its  efiect  annihilates  not 
the  germ  of  disposition  which  would  have 
ripened,  but  for  repression,  into  crime;  just 
as  not  every  open  sin  committed  is  presump- 
tive of  a  nature  recklessly  turned  from  God. 
In  many  hearts  clothed  in  white  before  the 
world,  His  spirit  reads  black  hatred,  burning 
jealousy,  more  ruthless  than  the  flames,  and 
cruelty  "  as  crimson,"  redder  than  spilled 
blood.  In  many  a  soul  whose  body  has  for- 
feited innocence.  His  eye  detects  the  spark 
that,  after  Expiation,  shall  blend  with  his 
light  some  future,  for  an  eternal  day. 

It  is  fashion,  and  has  longer  held  than 
most,  to  assert  that  want  of  training  for  the 


character,  and  want  of  care  over  the  feelings 
as  they  flower  from  instinct,  is  the  cause  of 
that  common  first,  sometimes  final,  failure 
in  life  —  a  disappointed  and  disappointing 
youth.  But  the  majority  of  facts  is  not  on 
this  ground  of  assertion,  though  the  reverse 
one  is  so  seldom  considered,  that  fads  are 
not  accepted  from  its  point  of  view  at  all. 
Yet  it  is  a  truth,  that  the  instances  of  suc- 
cess and  failure  are  equal  on  either  side.  A 
child  j)laced  and  bidden  to  keep  in  the  right 
paths  by  wrong  persons  —  that  is,  bj  per- 
sons whose  secret  lives  are  not  governed  by 
right — goes  almost  inevitably  wrong;  so  it 
happens  that  children  of  ftilse  religionists 
are  ever  faithless,  errant,  desultory,  or  dissi- 
pated. Those  again,  untaught,  uncared  for, 
unchecked,  who  feel  and  act  exactly  as  in- 
stinct directs  in  infancy,  and  passion  in 
youth,  take  just  the  same  wide,  thorny,  track- 
less paths  across  the  desert  of  the  world,  fall 
as  often  into  snares  by  the  way,  and  insnare 
as  many  others.  There  are  in  each  case 
exceptions ;  God  has  dropped  living  testi- 
mony of  his  existence  in  rare  natures  too 
pure  for  Avrong,  as  he  has  also  of  his  love  in 
loving  hearts,  too  full  of  charity's  fresh 
sweetness  to  hold  or  feel  the  sting  of  hatred  • 
and  of  his  beauty  in  countenances,  which 
reflect  it  on  earth  as  his  angels  do  in  heaven. 
But  with  these  few,  if  story  tampers,  then 
is  it  denied  the  remotest  resemblance  to 
Truth. 

Geraldine  had  been  trained  Avith  constant 
care,  watched  w'ith  unrelenting  vigilance ; 
her  mind  adorned  by  culture,  and  her  frame 
by  the  grace  with  which  culture  crowns  de- 
velopment. Propriety  and  orthodoxy  wei'e 
the  guardian  dragons  of  her  youth's  para- 
dise. Obedience  enjoined  was  also  enforced, 
as  long  and  as  far  as  human  agency  could 
influence  or  threaten.  Yet.  as  a  child,  she 
read  forbidden  bsoks,  disobeyed  orders  that 
were  wise,  because  in  their  very  list  were 
included  many  more  that  were  foolish.  Gen- 
erous through  all  her  waywardness,  there 
was  not  a  particle  of  what  is  meant  by  virtue 
in  her  goodness  ;  virtue  is  goodness  protest- 
ing, fi',hting  actively,  against  evil,  unsubdued 
by  f  .itagonism  of  person  or  of  principle. 
Swe  .it-tempered,  because  never  thwarted  — 
for  her  self-indulgences  were  secret  and  un- 
suspected—  she  was  at  the  same  time  noble, 
because  nobility  became  her  blood,  her  cir- 
cumstances, and  her  pride  ;  unworldly,  he- 
cause  unworldly  —  no  merit  in  natural  breed- 
ing conserving  her  from  vulgar  taint.  And 
at  the  first  thrust  in  life's  warfare  against 
her  positive  contentment,  her  pure  spiritual 
selfishness,  she  not  only  failed  —  she  fell  at 
once. 

And  he  who,  subtly  as  the  arch-temper, 
armed  and  urged  the  thrusting  chance 
against  her,  might  at  first  sight  seem  as  much 
to  blame  as  she  was  to  be  pitied.  Yet  it  was 
not  so.  He.  wild  as  the  desert  animal  or 
bird  no  man  has  ever  tracked  or  netted,  who 


140 


RUMOR. 


had  been  unrecognized  as  he  grew  by  any 
being  older  than  himself  or  wiser,  as  a  broth- 
er; he,  whose  gratitude  for  the  only  kind- 
ness he  had  realized,  had  merged  through 
passion  into  ingratitude  the  worst  and  cruel- 
est.  Even  this  boy  was  as  Httle  proper  to 
be  cursed  as  Geraldine.  Both  how  deeply, 
fatally  to  blame,  yet  who  should  blame  them  ? 
AVlio  knew  how,  if  indeed  worthy,  to  find 
fault?  Only  the  single  person  who  might 
have  been  justified  in  casting  at  them  a 
Btcne,  stood  still  aloof,  and  plucked'Tione  up, 

Mysterious,  and  yet  certain  are  the  pro- 
cesses of  the  soul's  deterioration,  facts 
■wrought  deep  in  darkness,  as  those  of  the 
eoul's  jjurification  are  wrought  open  to  the 
light  of  God;  yet  each  as  needful  to  the 
other,  and  the  end  consistent,  if  unseen  be- 
yond this  life  ;  and  precious  to  Heaven  must 
be  those  souls  reclaimed  who  are  left  not  to 
the  doom  of  their  own  devices,  the  calm  of  a 
false  life,  the  luxury  of  those  who  receive  in 
tliis  world  their  portion. 

Luck,  good  or  bad ;  the  success  wliich 
crowns  desire  for  some,  or  the  disappoint- 
ment wi-enching  hope  from  others,  is  a  term 
derived  from  man's  tendency  as  a  mortal,  to 
dwell  on  a  point  —  one  particle  of  the  per- 
fect and  rounded  destiny,  of  which  the 
incidents  of  luck,  whether  prosperous  or 
misfortunate,  are  merely  successive  points. 
Thus,  if  a  man  has  a  successful  paj^sion,  a 
wish  fulfilled,  nay,  but  a  whim  gratified,  he 
will  call  himself  fortunate,  looking  neither 
back  at  the  weary  lougmg,  nor  forward  to 
dead  inditference.  Just  so  he  will  wring  his 
hands  as  in  the  doom  of  despau-,  should  the 
single  passion  be  balked,  the  wish  unan- 
swered, the  whim  ungranied,  never  contem- 
plating the  whole  at  once,  life  stretching 
from  first  breath  to  eternity's  edge  ;  which 
aspect  of  the  being  is  impossible,  save  for 
the  sage  in  the  lucid  mirror  of  his  full  ex- 
perience, and  the  departing  spmt  which 
views  all  the  restless  past  in  peace,  from  the 
calm  brink  of  death. 

In  neither  of  these  frames,  from  no  point 
of  contemplation,  did  Geraldi  behold  his  tri- 
umph. Yet  it  covered  him  with  glory  in  his 
own  esteem,  like  a  purple  robe  over  a  coat 
of  lustrous  armor.  For  just  as  the  tempo- 
rary downfall  of  one  he  chose  to  consider,  be- 
cause he  detested  him,  an  enemy,  was  for 
himself  an  actual,  if  not  an  obvious,  triumph, 
so  his  false  and  unallowable  zeal  on  behalf 
of  his  cousin,  in  his  own  eyes,  seemed  hon- 
orable chivalry.  Self-possessed  all  through 
his  dreamed  design,  cool  in  his  daring,  herein 
consisted  the  danger  for  her  —  his  control 
over  all  except  his  passion,  and  that  only 
secretly  indulged,  no  longer  as  an  aspiration, 
but  as  an  intention,  and  only  now  a  hope,  so 
far  as  hope  impHes  fulfilment.  Confidence 
was  the  set  frame  to  which  the  long  course 
of  selfish  energy  had  hardened  ;  and  in  the 
midst  of  that  unboyish  mood  —  befitting 
rather  the  strong  man  with  formed  and  busy 


!  head,  and  bafHed  heart  —  Geraldi  sa^-  hi« 
j  passion,  intention,  and  hope,  all  at  once  and 
j  the  same,  a  triumph.  So  sure,  he  could 
I  atford,  in  the  slow  development  of  evtnts,  to 
'  wait  —  patiently,  too,  as  a  woman,  or  rather 
as  a  fox  or  other  subtle  animal  of  prey,  for 
whom  only  patience  will  procure  a  feast.  For 
the  same  reason  it  was  easy  enough  for  him 
to  continue  the  manner  and  mode  fraternal 
towards  the  hapless  Geraldine.  Also  he  was 
aided  here  by  necessity  —  neither  he  nor 
another  mortal  could  set  aside  or  suiiersede 
the  reign  of  sickness,  sacred  above  lU  othei 
sovereign  claims.  For  long,  by  a  bare  pulse- 
thi-ead,  in  all  opinion  but  his  generated  au- 
dacity, Geraldine's  being  in  this  world  hung ; 
and,  but  for  the  chance  w'hich  is  a  concomi- 
tant of  existence  as  long  as  one  sure  grain 
quivers  in  the  life-glass  unfallen ;  but  for  the 
consciousness  that  if  he  never  possessed  her 
living,  the  one  who  had  done  so  could  never 
possess  her  dead ;  it  would  seem  as  though 
no  hope  unhallowed,  no  charm  unlawful, 
could  be  fulfilled  for  or  given  to  Geraldi. 
But  it  happened  not  so,  nor  endured  he  the 
least  of  all  the  agonies  of  terror,  not  one 
pang  of  the  travail  of  suspense.  Xow  and 
then  such  phenomena  among  characters  are 
born,  as  there  are  minds  created  too  eccen- 
tric to  merit  the  name  of  genius  :  and  from 
the  moment  he  had  succeeded  in  blasting,  by 
a  final  shock  —  artificial,  albeit,  as  a  powder 
train  well-laid  —  the  constancy  he  had  un- 
dermined for  months,  his  inward  chaos  of 
black  despau-  had  lighted  up  with  flames  of 
jealousy,  no  longer  hidden  perforce  from  his 
own  perception,  and  burned  into  defiance  — 
disdain  ;  he  defied  his  cousin's  Maker  as  he 
disdained  her  master  upon  earth.  Mood 
which  made  old  races  take  their  stand  on 
facts  of  Satanic  mfiuence  direct  from  the 
Lord-demon  ;  of  possession  by  inferior  dev- 
ils, superior  in  dread  strength  to  man,  of 
witch-bewitchment,  and  wizard-craft.  For 
the  true  deliverance  of  man  to  the  powers  of 
evil  is  that  he  be  deUvered  up  to  himself — 
that  he  go  away  out  of  God's  sight  wilfully, 
if  not  willingly,  not  that  God  forsakes  him. 
For  there  is  not  a  question  that  when  man 
rehes  utterly  and  wholly  upon  himself  alone, 
his  volition  is  stronger,  because  more  intense 
and  wholly  concentrated  then  —  his  pride  en- 
tirely concerned  and  glorified ;  he  will  have 
what  he  icill  to  happen :  if  so,  right  often  it 
does  happen,  and  God  interferes  not  —  it  is 
out  of  sight  of  his  pure  eyes. 

Geraldi  determined  that  Geraldine  should 
live;  and  she  Uved  —  he  not  only  resolved, 
!  but  believed  it  — so  it  happened.  Faith  im- 
I  plicit  removes  mountains  ;  evil  is  possible  to 
!  it,  if  unusual  of  occurrence,  as  good  ;  arch- 
]  magicians  of  Egypt  taught  this  truth  to 
Moses.  Always,  saving  in  the  matter  of  life 
I  and  death,  this  may  be  said  truly.  And  it  is 
'  also  certain  that,  as  it  happened,  Geraldine 
j  would  have  Kved  without  liis  resolution  inter- 
I  posed.     We  but  set  down  the  fact  that  ha 


RUMOR. 


141 


willed,  believed  —  and  his  desire  and  assur- 
ance came  to  pass. 

Looking  to  natural  causes  after  super- 
natural, instead  of  the  usual  succession,  it 
was  not  only  natural  but  a  necessity,  she 
should  so  far  recover.  For  the  possible 
death-result  of  her  illness,  short  as  danger- 
ous, had  been  annihilated  with  the  danger 
suddenly  removed ;  just  as  but  for  certain 
c'lnditioas  fulfilled,  it  would  have  killed  her 
instead.  These  conditions  were  such  as,  if 
she  had  ha])])ened  to  be  the  child  of  parents 
unal)le  to  fulfil  the  physician's  decrees  (ful- 
filled to  the  letter  for  her)  or  obliged  to  delay 
her  depaiture  from  this  climate  impregnated 
with  lung-poison  ;  but  neither  case  was  hers. 
Almost  common  as  is  the  prescription  of 
climate  equable  and  mild  for  consumptive 
tendency  or  disease,  these  vary  in  so  many 
forms  and  have  such  unexpected  phases,  that 
it  is  no  marvel  the  exceptions  among  such 
exiles  are  those  who  return,  or  remain 
abroad,  there  cured.  In  Geraldine's  kind  of 
attack,  to  rally  was  recovery,  unless  relapse 
ensued,  which  probably  would  have  chanced 
in  this  land  —  mist-cradle  of  the  sea-born 
fog.  And  she  rallied  even  before  leaving 
England,  though  her  husband  was  not  near 
enough  to  perceive  the  improvement;  though, 
half-restored  already  as  she  was,  she  cared 
not  to  bid  him  farewell.  This,  at  once  the 
crown  and  core  of  her  deep  offence,  she  might 
have  been  forgiven  dm-ing  the  light-headed 
hallucination  consequent  upon  hemorrhage 
of  the  lungs  ;  so  long  as  that  endured,  a  neg- 
ative excuse,  if  not  actual,  might  be  due  to 
her.  But,  the  crisis  overpast ;  then  tended 
by  nurses  whose  very  paid  footsteps  lulled, 
whose  handling  seemed  to  drop  sleep's  pop- 
pies on  the  eyelids ;  by  physicians  who 
loomed  over  the  couch  by  which  they  were 
no  longer  needed,  like  knowledge  and  pro- 
tection in  effigy,  breathed  on  by  and  nested 
in  luxury  like  a  fairy  in  the  heart  of  a  rose- 
cup  —  the  potions  disguised  by  perfumes,  the 
pills  gilded  tasteless  —  the  wines  for  strength- 
ening, delicate  as  nectar,  the  fruits  for  re- 
freshment like  dainties  dropped  from  para- 
dise, with  ices  hard  as  snow  on  mountain 
summits,  and  sweet  with  all  the  souls  of  fruit. 
Not  only  such  enticements  to  ease,  but  the 
sameness  of  painless  convalescence,  lightened 
and  varied  for  Geraldhie  by  g,  perpetual  mild 
sunshine  of  homage,  an  eternal  incense  of 
uns])oken  flattery. 

And  all  through  the  phases  of  passive  en- 
durance, which  make  steady  restoration  like 
one  long  indolent  holiday,  she  never  faltered 
from  her  rash  and  sudden  estimate,  her  con- 
■.science  whispered  not,  it  was  drugged  too 
deep  with  selfishness  ;  her  judgment  could 
not  question,  it  was  blind  and  dumb.  Had 
she  even  been  left  to  herself,  it  seems  little 
likely  she  would  have  come  to  her  right  mind, 
much  more  to  her  healthful  heart,  soon  and 
easily  —  of  the  spirit's  sickness  the  cure  is 
never   sure  if  sudden,   and    almost   always^, 


slow.  But  the  influence  of  Geraldi  —  he 
strong  as  she  was  weak,  her  selfishness 
single,  but  his  doubly  inthralled  by  self,  his 
character  set  against  all  laws  of  heaven  and 
honor  consciously  and  willingly,  as  hers  was 
ignnrantly  bent  —  that  influence  indeed 
seemed  to  exist  only  to  seal  her  doom,  and 
distance  to  the  remotest  hour  of  hfe,  if  not 
forever,  her  return  to  the  possession  of  her 
right  mind  and  heart. 

Geraldi  could  afford  to  behave  with  pro- 
priety at  present,  for  the  perfecting  of  the 
fraud  he  practised  on  those  he  had  first  de- 
ceived. Not  one  of  those  he  had  made  mis- 
erable or  guilty  —  neither  of  the  twain  -  -  had 
the  least  suspicion  of  his  design,  or  that  he 
had  any.  Albany's  imagination  Avas  tco 
grand  to  have  made  it  possible  for  him  tc 
conceive  a  plan  at  once  so  monstrous,  and  so 
mean ;  Geraldine  was  at  this  time  too  self- 
preoccupied  with  the  romance  of  her  posi- 
tion to  contemplate  any  fixed  point  or  proba- 
bility in  the  future  at  all.  Nor  stood  Geraldi 
on  the  list  for  pardon,  of  those  M'ho  do  not 
err  wilfully  but  weakly,  who  insensibly  fall 
into  temptation,  driven  thither  in  a  whirl  of 
impulse.  Calm  if  not  skilful  as  a  surgeon, 
he  was  cool  as  an  executioner,  not  one  gleam 
of  com])unction  crossed  his  countenance,  se- 
renely warped  with  smiles,  none  was  emitted 
in  secret  from  his  heart ;  if  Geraldine's  con- 
science was  drugged,  his  was  scotched  —  it 
coukl  not  stir  nor  sting.  There  might  pos- 
sibly come  an  hour  in  which  it  should  rear  its 
crest  in  revenge,  and  pour  forth  all  the  ven- 
om of  its  tohnent  to  help  another  torment ; 
but  it  was  yet  in  the  beginning — not  seem- 
ing near  the  end.  When  Geraldine  reached 
her  grandmother's  house  —  her  old  home  — 
it  would  have  been  indeed  strange  had  she 
experienced  no  dim  and  moving  reminis- 
cences —  not  compunction  for  her  fault,  but 
natural  trouble  at  the  change  passed  over 
her  with  which  she  charged  another  —  and 
blamed  him  bitterly,  wildly,  in  the  quick 
pang  that  seized  her  then,  and  was  so  quickly 
spent.  First  felt  then,  too,  because  not  till 
she  was  established  there  were  her  spirits 
strong  enough  to  wing  her  memory ;  her  con- 
valescence was  only  then  complete.  The 
first  breath  of  the  embalmed  air,  the  first 
stately  shadow  of  the  marble  terrace  seen 
freshly  in  the  sun,  the  first  rustle  of  the  old 
myrtle  thickets,  were  the  i>emedy,  and  she 
responded  to  it  —  with  it  her  brain  cleared 
fully,  and  in  the  first  lucid  frame  she  suffered, 
still  rather  in  her  pride  than  through  her 
love.  Afterwards  in  her  regenerated  exist- 
ence she  often  inquired  of  herself  where  that 
love  of  hers  lived  while  her  separation  from 
it  lasted  —  during  the  suspension  of  it,  when 
the  heart's  loss  was  by  the  heart  unregretted. 
Love  cannot  die  —  it  must  then  have  been 
for  the  time  al)sorbed  into  the  great  principle 
of  love,  which  governs  all  things,  and  there 
have  rested,  ere  it  rose  again,  and  purified. 

Now,  it  was  well  for  Geraldi's  satisfaction 


142 


RUMOR. 


that  he  had  rmde  up  his  mind  it  would  be  a 
long  and  measured  race  towards  the  goal  of 
his  desires.  For,  after  her  wild  ap])eal  and 
approach  to  him  in  her  first  natural  agonj-, 
she  turned  from  him  as  decidedly.  Ptomance 
and  pride  ruled  her  girl's  brain  between  them 
now  ;  her  career,  fine  and  poetic  in  its  com- 
mencement, was  of  course  at  this  its  climax, 
sublime.  What  woman,  she  considered, 
ever  acted  with  energy  so  direct  and  spirit 
so  exalted  ?  She  was  accustomed  to  lie  and 
muse  —  or  as  her  mind  grew  stronger,  inly 
comment,  on  the  various  modes  with  which 
other  girls  of  her  age  and  station  had  or 
would  have  endured  the  indignity,  the  dis- 
grace, (if  endured,)  of  a  second  place  in  a 
husband's  heart ;  on  their  spiritless  inven- 
tions to  keep  the  fact  even  out  of  their  own 
sight,  because  of  what  they  would  have  to 
sacrifice,  in  sacrificing  wifehood  and  worldly 
consideration.  All  which  I  sacrificed,  thought 
Geraldine,  never  reflecting  on  the  fact  that 
she  had  never  cared  the  least  in  the  world 
for  any  worldly  advantages,  consideration, 
or  any  outward  claims  of  wifehood  as  a 
woman  in  society,  &c.  She  certainly  shed 
tears  sometimes,  just  after  waking  in  the 
morning,  when  the  truth  came  fresh  as  light 
to  her,  or  at  night,  when  weariness  softened 
all  her  sensations  ;  but  they  were  hitter 
dews,  she  pressed  them  back  from  the 
beginning,  and  at  last  learned  to  feel  them 
■without  permitting  them  to  fall ;  for  they 
expressed  her  natural  longing,  which  pride 
kept  down  and  would  not  brook.  One  only 
excuse  existed  for  this  unnatural  repression 
of  nature,  the  system  pursued  by  Geraldi 
had  been  subtle  enough  to  have  etfect  from 
the  beginning,  her  innocence  helped  this 
effect,  but  most  her  blood-affection. 

At  the  very  beginning  of  her  new  life  in 
old  scenes,  she  received  her  first  letter  from 
her  husband.  No  need  of  Geraldi's  subtle 
strong  revenge,  or  the  grandmother's  small 
family  spite,  to  make  her  consider  —  in  her 
frame,  then  feel  it  —  cold  and  cruel,  even 
careless.  As  she  received  it,  it  actually  in- 
sulted her  in  her  own  esteem,  for  in  that 
moral  anarchy  of  exaggerated  sentiments 
and  untempered  thoughts,  a  letter  such  as 
Albany's,  Avhose  quiet  diction  and  reserved 
pain  betokened  perfect  sanity  of  mind  and 
body,  was  as  useless  as  it  seemed  revolting. 
And  yet,  this  letter  had  a  positive  eff'ect,  be- 
sides that  which  may  be  named  the  negative 
one,  of  preventing  its  own  reply,  for  of 
( ourse  Geraldine  was  too  proud  to  answer 
it,  or  to  write  to  England  at  all.  Its  posi- 
tive efi'ect  however  was,  that  it  prompted  her 
to  avenge  herself  rather  more  dangerously, 
if  she  succeeded  in  her  design,  than  had  she 
merely  written  violent  and  haughty  letters 
to  her  husband  which  no  one  else  should 
read. 

Through  moral  anarchy,  great  ideas  are 
«pt  to  generate  in  imaginative  minds.  They 
even  rise,   strong  at  first  through  passion, 


land  seeming  winged  to  heaven  —  but  flag- 
!  ging,  downflung,  as  all  man's  mechanism  on 
j  that  aspiring  road.  For  ideas  to  rise,  to 
endure,  and  drop  their  fruit,  they  must  be 
j  produced  in  moral  harmony,  if  not  in  men- 
tal calm.     So  Geraldine  aspired,  and  fell. 

No  one  will  believe  that  a  person  of  jio- 
etic  temperament,  with  the  gift  of  language, 
will  live  without  expression  in  some  one 
form  or  another.  Art  is  the  true  expression, 
though  therein  so  many  forms  include  them- 
selves. Music  certainly  the  highest,  albeit 
words  (not  poetry)  the  lowest  and  the  easi- 
est. Young  as  she  was,  Geraldine  was  not 
so  ignorant  that  she  had  not  informed  her- 
self of  every  literary  whim  and  fashion,  as 
well  as  orthodox  achievement.  She  knew, 
and  when  at  home  with  her  husl)and  had 
often,  to  his  fond  amusement,  ridiculed  the 
performances  of  that  singular  authoress  who, 
separated  from  her  husband,  could  not  tear 
herself  from  the  contemplation  of  marriage, 
which  she  made  absurd  in  attempts  at 
sublimating  it  out  of  her  own  personal  ex- 
periences, Geraldine  had  mocked,  not 
causelessly,  the  pages  innumerable  which 
she  darkened  with  demon  likenesses  of  him 
who  had  sometime  been  her  master  in  tlie 
flesh  —  the  man  whom  she  hated  and  assert- 
ed to  have  injured  her.  As  in  the  old-fash- 
ioned toy  of  change  ible  ladies,  she  emjjloyed 
his  head-])iece  for  an  initial  to  all  her  char- 
acters, whose  extravagances  and  wicked- 
nesses, as  depicted  by  herself,  she  persisted 
in  pinning  on  him,  however  unlike  hinj 
those  heroes  veritably  might  be.  Scarcely 
a  month  after  her  arrival,  Geraldine  had 
arrangetl  a  work,  in  reahty  suggested  by  the 
infituated  lady  she  had  repudiated  in  her 
ridicule  —  out  of  her  young  ignorance  it 
sprang  vast,  gloi'ious,  and  complete  in  antic- 
ipation. No  such  book  had  yet  been 
devised  ;  such  should  be  read  and  received 
by  all,  in  true  not  false  testimony  of  man's 
ingratitude  and  falsehood.  The  doom  of 
her  first  book  withheld  Geraldine  in  this 
new  mood,  no  more  than  the  first  shot  miss- 
inij  the  wild  herd  daunts  the  desert-huntei-. 
lie  —  her  husband  —  had  alone  been  to 
blame  for  its  non-success,  or  rather  for  its 
success  not  satisfying  her.  This  new  work 
should  electrify  those  stocks  and  stones  the 
first  had  not  stirred,  and  he  should  be  crushed 
under  its  weigh't  of  retributive  genius.  And 
as  the  nerve-spirit  was  not  spent  in  this  clay 
skeleton  fur  Geraldine,  only  her  physical 
functions  aff'ected,  she  might  have  succeeded 
at  least  m  finishviy  what  she  ardently  begin, 
but  for  a  circumstance,  small  amid  the  niyi 
iad  proofs  of  the  giant  Circumstance's  ex 
istence,  but  immense  enough  to  her  near 
perception  to  crush  her  experunent  into  an- 
nihilation. 

Her  grandmother,  whose  table  was  of 
course  supplied  with  choice  literary  items  a» 
well  as  common  ones  ;  just  as  it  was  duly 
f  spread  with  inventions  to  culture   and  cor- 


RUMOR 


•3-^; 


rupt  tlie  palate ;  never  herself  did  more 
than  dip  into  book  or  periodical,  poem  or 
pamphlet ;  as  with  her  simple  Tuscan  tastes 
she  only  ia.sfed  Fi'ench  dishes  ;  mementoes 
of  exluiusted  appetites  reexcited  and  sus- 
tained. Nor  was  Geraldine  a  great  or 
steady  reader  —  therein  proving  that  she 
was  not  destined  for  a  great  or  steady 
luminary  of  literature.  She  also  dipped 
into  dishes  of  both  kinds  —  perhaps  more 
vividly  perceived  their  separate  flavors. 
Among  them,  while  her  great  idea  was 
dawning  into  morning  twilight,  from  which 
she  prophesied  its  perfect  day  —  she  hap- 
pened to  take  up  a  sewn  publication,  the 
review  of  all  reviews.  She  took  it  up  quite 
carelessly  —  as  vehemently,  passionately,  al- 
most desperately,  dropped  it.  Then  clutched 
it  f/eshly,  gathered  it  in  her  hands,  as 
though  it  contained  a  new  gospel  of  prom- 
ises for  a  new  condition  of  pain  and  yearn- 
ing ;  or,  rather  she  held  it  as  a  maiden  her 
first  real  love-letter,  or  one  condemned  his 
written  reprieve. 

It  was  the  name  that  riveted  her  first  — 
of  her  own  old  book,  that  lost  yet  exintlng 
fable  of  her  own  young  fame  ;  loved  still, 
though  with  aff'ection  most  carefully  con- 
cealed from  pride.  But  now  Geraldine  read 
and  re-read  the  superscription  ;  it  could  not 
be,  yet  was.  And  he  M'ho  had  taken  it  in 
hand — spent  time  upon  it  —  was  the  one 
alone  to  whose  notice  she  had  not  aspired, 
deeming  it  too  powerful  and  high.  Even 
Diamid's  literary  experience  had  most  led 
him  to  the  false  belief  that,  if  a  book  were 
not  noticed  by  Tims  Scrannel,  its  literary 
success  was  incomplete.  The  pang,  which 
was  already  stifled  from  repetition,  once 
more  struck  through  and  through  her,  yet 
scarcely  touched  her  heart,  it  pierced  her 
pride.  Alas  !  that  it  should  have  come  too 
late  for  Jam  —  for  me  to  behold  him  when 
yet  he  would  have  cared  for  the  surprise. 
Still,  pride  pierced,  was  all  the  more  thrill- 
ingly  sensitive  to  the  fact  that  all  the  world 
yet  should  read  and  wonder.  She  should  be 
held  up  to  honor  in  absence  —  her  genius 
made  heroic  by  its  author's  sad,  romantic 
fate.  Such  were  the  first  suggestions  of  her 
nature  as  it  then  M'as  influenced  —  next 
came  the  curiosity  to  life,  held  in  check  till 
then  by  these  suggestions.  Her  eyes  fas- 
tened on  the  page  —  she  read. 

The  first  few  sentences  rang  rich  as  festal 
yet  solemn  music  ;  all  Scrannel's  criticisms 
opened  so.  Then  came  the  sketch  by  the 
strong,  masterly,  accustomed  hand  —  no 
caricature,  not  a  line  altered  —  certainly  no 
injustice  to  the  book's  design.  Then  lucid, 
logical,  thoughtful,  but  ever  calm  —  the 
gradual  and  crushing  argument.  For  he 
had  actually  taken  pains  with  it ;  his  intel- 
lect had  not  spared  itself  in  the  task.  The 
faults  not  hinted  at,  but  shown ;  the  beau- 
ties shorn  of  their  ideal  mist,  down  to  bare, 
and   sometimes   skeleton   sentiment.       The 


eloquence  st^^e^  to  its  fact  —  precocious 
wealth  and  \^J^e„^5'^words  not  understood. 
Xo  one  could  qries'tlon  the  truth  or  justice 
of  what  was  proved ;  there  stood  the  per- 
formance which  now  to  the  performer's  men- 
tal vision  showed,  as  to  the  sensuous  eye 
shows  the  design  of  the  unskilful  draughts- 
man, its  crooked  and  tremulous  lines  crossed 
by  the  artists  correcting  pencil.  All  this, 
however,  could  Geraldine  bear  patiently, 
even  proudly,  for  her  mind  gave  not  the  lie 
•to  it  in  any  particular.  Not  to  the  verdiot 
annihilating  her  claim  to  genius ;  herein 
])roving,  perhaps,  that  her  claim  was  no 
false  one,  for  if  passion  be  even  —  ovcti  ex- 
aggeratedly prone  to  pride,  certainly  true 
genius  is  of  and  in  itself  inevitably  modest. 
Still,  a  sort  of  quiet  settled  down  on  her, 
which  an  older  person,  better  disciphned, 
because  longer,  would  have  shrunk  from 
in  terror  —  as  sign  of  near  despair.  She 
scarcely  cared  to  finish  what  she  read  ;  well 
for  her  comfort  had  she  failed  to  turn  the 
leaf —  the  last  leaf,  too,  remaining.  But  as, 
in  all  moods  approaching  (but  not  yet)  de- 
spair, there  was  a  biting  necessity  for  more 
excitement —  even  more  painful  excitement. 
So  she  looked  on  hurriedly.  Not  twenty 
lines  m.ore  belonged  to  her  ;  they  were  soon 
surely  read  and  understood.  How  then 
was  it  that  she  still  held  the  paper,  tighter 
and  tighter,  till  the  clasp  seemed  clinched 
—  while  it  rustled  as  in  palsied  fingers  ? 
Why  stole  that  shadow,  which  seemed  rather 
of  stupefiction  than  of  sorrow,  over  her 
clear  forehead  ?  And  wherefore  did  her 
eyes  wander  wildly  and  dilated,  up  and 
down  the  page,  as  though  to  learn  some 
meaning  —  whether  enchantiiig  or  detesta- 
ble —  by  heart  ? 

She  had  dreamed  the  verdict  of  false 
genius  final  —  there  was  yet  another  crueller 
and  falser  than  the  false  imputation.  Cer- 
tainly the  very  final  objections,  which  were 
less  against  her  book  than  her  own  charac- 
ter, had  been  hinted  at  before  by  little  writ- 
ers in  insignificant  reviews,  forgotten  with 
the  hour.  But  hinted  too  vaguely  for  her 
to  understand  their  drift.  Here  there  was 
no  hint,  but  set  assertion  —  by  a  man  of  tb.e 
world,  who  certainly  should  have  studitci 
women  —  that  this  woman  was  a  reprobate. 
Immoral  —  unvirtuous  —  tampering  wiih 
veiled  truths.  Poor  Geraldine  !  her  inno- 
cence, rash  knowledge  —  her  instinct,  vice. 

Now,  in  fact,  Tims  Scrannel,  when  that 
blossom  of  premature  genius  dropped  before 
the  crude  fruit  formed,  in  the  very  path  of 
his  perception,  took  no  heed  of  it,  save  as 
an  epicure  in  letters  to  remark  siletitly  on 
the  annihilation  of  such  a  ])romise  —  a  fruit 
which  when  ripe  might  have  given  a  new 
flavor  to  his  fastidious  taste.  Beautiful 
however,  it  was,  as  valueless  —  that  flower 
which  might  have  turned  to  fruit  —  he  would 
as  soon  have  thought  of  noticing  its  descent 
critically  as  of  seriously  treating  in  text   a 


144 


RUMOR. 


windf:ill  in  a  iieic^hbor's  orchard.  Yet,  like  all 
vain,  sensitive  men,  he  was  by  no  means 
independent  of  the  many  —  nay  not  of  the 
ignorant  whom  he  ])rofessed  to  despise.  So 
when  many  others  —  quite  enough  private 
persons  to  constitute  the  term  the  public  — 
contemplated  this  bloom  dropped  too  soon 
from  promise,  inhaled  its  odor  fresh  with 
youth,  and  sweet  with  youngest  passion,  they 
deeftied  it  a  rare  thing,  just  as  some  wild 
flowers  are  precious  in  climates  where  they 
do  not  grow,  and  when  even  Rumor  em- 
ployed on*-  whisper  of  all  its  myriad  tongues, 
to  marvel  at  and  inquire  the  author's  name  ; 
then  it  even  called  for  notice  by  one  whose 
chief  notability  was  that  he  was  able  as  well 
as  willing  to  decide  all  Rumor's  questions. 
But  how  to  notice  it  ?  he  to  whose  vivid  intel- 
lectual instinct  his  slow  heart  ever  gave  the 
lie,  how  should  he  praise  ?  why  blame  ?  when 
either  sentence  might  be  a  blunder  written 
to  be  read  of  all  men. 

It  is  amazing  how  many  men  of  natural 
ability  and  erudite  experience,  are  at  impor- 
tant moments  driven  or  drawn  into  the 
power  of  women  one  shade  less  than  fair, 
one  ray  less  than  beautiful,  and  but  one 
whit  wiser  than  foolish.  The  beautiful  and 
wise,  the  queens  of  physical  fairydom,  are 
foiled  if  they  cast  forth  their  gentle  and  un- 
conscious spells  in  company  with  the  brazen- 
fronted,  clad  with  guile. 

Tims  Scrannel,  who  would  have  routed  a 
whole  phalanx  of  lovely  and  witty  women 
by  his  sneers  alone,  and  scattered  their 
bright  faculties  with  his  angel-demon  ogle, 
•was  willing  to  take  counsel  of  Helen  Jordan, 
a  person  whose  brains  might  have  been 
safely  contained  in  an  empty  egg-shell,  and 
whose  iu'^ocence  had  evaporated  in  her  chris- 
tening-dews. Now  Helen  Jordan  actually 
at  first  believed  that  "  Virgilia  "  —  book  of 
classic  name  and  nature  romantic  out  of  all 
rule  and  reason  —  had  been  written  by  Al- 
bany. She  had  read  and  loved  his  books  for 
the  fashion  contained  and  ridiculed  in  them, 
just  as  clowns  go  to  penny  Shakespeare- 
theatres  for  the  fun.  As  being  a  person 
little  able  to  distinguish  between  things  that 
wnoiiy  liiiiered,  she  was  very  likely  to  con- 
found those  together  that  bore  to  each  other 
%  certain  resemblance.  So  her  deception 
was  helped  out  by  phrases  and  manner  in- 
sensibly imitated  from  Albany's,  in  the  book. 
She  had  a  sort  of  vulgar  admiration  for  his 
person,  as  he  possessed  eyes  and  hair  of  the 
stereotyped  heroic  tint  and  darkness.  But 
she  cordially  —  cordially  as  a  being  so  cold 
and  hollow  could  —  detested  Geraldine  with 
her  unworldly  and  impulsive  nature  —  such 
unworldliness  innocently  condemned  a  nar- 
row mundane  mind,  such  impulsion  mocked 
and  shamed  a  passionless  and  calculating 
nature.  Helen  Jordan  took  some  pains  to 
excite  Tims  Scrannel  about  Geraldine's 
authorship.  He,  looking  at  himself  from 
his  point  of  view  —  too  near  not  to  be  out 


of  all  perspective  —  deemed  himself  too  lofty 
and  sublime,  to  busy  himself,  es])ecially  with 
the  antic  of  premature  intelligence.  Helen 
became  the  more  resolved  that  Geraldine,  the 
married  girl,  should  be  plagued  and  pun- 
ished for  the  sake  of  her  own  grown  wo- 
man's hatred.  Scrannel,  however,  bided  the 
time  —  not  even  a  M'oman,  too  headless  and 
heartless  to  excite  his  jealousy,  nould 
incite  him  to  expression  ;  he  would  act,  con- 
victed by  himself,  and  the  impulses  of  de- 
testation are  as  direct  as  those  of  love.  He 
hated  Albany  as  the  all-seasoned  rose  hated 
Geraldine  ;  he  had  hated  her,  too,  but  the 
hatred  had  been  forced  uiuler  by  the  force 
more  irresistible  of  admiration.  And  per- 
haps he  hated  him  for  the  reason  Helen 
hated  her  —  the  reason  also  which  had  drawn 
the  high-experienced  and  culture-chastened 
genius  to  the  untempered,  inexperienced 
girl  —  the  purity  of  both.  To  wound  Al- 
bany through  his  dearest  weakness,  his  vul- 
nerable humanity,  was  at  once  a  gracious 
and  an  honorable  course.  For,  whom  sjiared 
Albany  in  his  satire  ?  Whom  distinguished 
he  as  M'orthy  to  share  his  heart  save  his  wife 
alone  ?  All  the  world  had  seen  the  homage 
he  paid,  the  love  he  gave  her  ;  he  never 
thrust  his  tenderness  back  into  his  nature, 
because  rude  eyes  might  detect  it  ;  it  was 
for  her,  not  them,  and  if  they  questioned  it, 
it  might  at  least  teach  them,  Love,  not  "  un- 
derstanding," is  the  most  precious  treasure 
of  the  wise.  So,  in  due  course,  Albany  was 
deeply  pained  by  a  judgment  of  his  wife, 
which,  had  she  been  in  her  right  ])lace  by 
his  side,  he  would  only  have  laughed  at 
with  her  ;  now  the  heart  M'ound  stanched, 
but  not  healed,  opened  fresh  to  the  insidious 
chill,  and  throbbed  anew.  Who  knows  not 
the  torture  of  an  open  wound  in  winter  ? 
Desolate  had  he  been,  and  dry  as  winter 
until  then  —  nor  had  the  cold  lacked  either 

—  still,  as  time  breathed  on  the  pain,  in 
time,  with  all  wounds,  it  healed,  and  then 
that  pain  which  lay  not  lowest,  but  at  the 
surface,  was  forgotten,  as  a  generous  mau 
forgets  the  wrongs  he  only  felt  as  -woes. 
But  it  was  not  so  with  Geraldine  ;  still  pure, 
if  not  faultless  —  unfallen,  if  changed  for 
evil.  All  the  graceful  sneers,  the  satire 
sheathed  in  brilliant  eloquence,  the  strong 
experience  which  crushed  —  as  the  former 
had  scattered  —  her  delicate-winged  ideas, 
had  failed  to  wound  her  vitality,  though 
they  pinched  her  as  if  skin-deep  —  for  never 
was  she  a  moment  vain.  But  the  unfalter- 
ing and  awful  accusation  of  immorality  — 
of  rash  tampering  with  sacred  truths  !  from 
the  moment  she  read  it  —  clearly  compre- 
hending its  full  force  —  she  doomed  herself. 
AVas  it  possible  she  was  then  unknown  to 
herself  till  then  —  such  as  a  thousand  others 

—  shameless,  forlorn  in  the  shadoivlessness 
of  vanished  virtue  ?  The  magnitude  of  the 
charge  prevented  her  from  testing  it ;  as 
well  could  a  rock-clung  limpet  resist  and 


RUMOR. 


145 


fling-  from  itself  a  rock  hurled  down  upon  it 
to  crush  it.  She  could  but  drearily  and  pit- 
iably accept  the  sentence  she  had  no  power 
or  knowledge  how  to  reverse,  and  retire  not 
only  from  fame  but  from  a  dearer  reputation 

—  rest  buried  under  the  charge  till  death. 
Yet,  unhappy  child,  she   knew  not  —  the 

shock   had  been  too  great  to  let  her  realize 

—  how  much  her  singular  conduct  and  rash 
defection  towards  her  husband,  had  contrib- 
uted to  remove  from  a  conscience,  never 
over-honorable,  the  last  honorable  compunc- 
tion. Of  course  had  she  borne  silently, 
wha*,  was  actually  a  real  sorrow  to  a  nature 
like  hers,  uncompromising  —  silently  —  then 
how  proudly  —  no  critic  could  have  con- 
nected her  history  with  her  mind's  invention, 
or  dared  to  touch  upon  her  conduct. 

l^ut  the  more  important  result  of  her  new 
and  dread  condition  was  retarded  —  the  time 
had  not  then  come.  For  the  present,  the 
reading  of  the  poisoned  sentence  had  but 
envenomed  her  own  opinion  of  herself,  and 
struck  her  mute.  Never  cared  she  to  write 
again  —  to  ex])ose  herself  to  charges  she 
could  neither  resist  nor  repudiate.  Nay, 
from  that  hour  her  genius,  frail  at  the  best 
as  a  summer  butterfly,  drooped  like  one 
bruised  and  crushed,  its  wings  could  not 
open  —  its  impulse  was  spent  forever.  In 
truth,  the  most  delicate  genius  is  so  easily 
crushed,  that  (praise  be  to  Heaven),  it  is 
rarer  to  find  existent  than  the  mighty  and 
the  strong.  For  the  time  then  —  in  one 
sense  forever  —  Geraldine  was  stricken  idle. 
She  had  never  cared  for  nor  followed  any 
feminine  pursuit,  save  poetry  and  love ; 
these  failing  her,  her  hands  dropped  nerve- 
less in  her  lap,  a  mist  rose  up  in  her  brain 
and  wrapped  her  faculties  from  her  percep- 
tion ;  she  went  softly  in  the  utter  bitterness 
of  her  soul. 

The  pre-adamite  warfare  between  the  devil 
and  Jehovah,  is  a  type  repeated  in  every  age 
down  to  tiiat  ebbing  at  our  feet.  The  prin- 
ciple of  evil,  at  once  actual  and  subtle,  tries 
hard  to  separate  the  sons  of  God  from  God 
for  Eternity,  and  sometimes  succeeds  en- 
tirely for  time.  To  effect  such  separation, 
the  demon  in  every  imagined  and  unimag- 
ined  form  enters  the  mind  of  man  —  for 
some  the  trial  is  fiercer,  shorter,  and  the 
triumph  earlier  complete  —  man's  return  to 
the  faUier  of  his  spirit.  But  while  it  pos- 
sesses, it  rages  in  the  soul,  sears  it,  rends 
from  perception  of  love's  soft  touch,  yells  to 
drown  love's  delicate  eternal  music.  In  such 
cases  all  causes  seem  to  favor  the  enemy  of 
Love,  while  the  struggle  lasts  events  happen 
which  minister  to  the  sovereign  evil ;  so  it 
was  with  Geraldine.  Temptations  closed 
upon  her,  before  she  had  time  or  recovered 
sense  to  fling  one  back  without  acknowl- 
edgment. Geraldi  did  his  best,  which  was 
his  worst,  and  his  blood-influence  lent  his 
intentions  an  irresistible,  because  so  subtle 
a  sti-ongth. 

19 


But  how  could  Geraldi,  the  proud  boy- 
pauper,  contrive  to  gain  influence  permanent 
and  indestructil)le ;  did  a  poor  man  ever  so 
succeed  ?  For  the  matter  of  that,  Geraldine, 
in  her  listless  life,  retrieved  from  conva- 
lescence, had  one  cause  for  wonder  left  her 
one  curious  point,  a  fixed  one,  even  in  her 
aimless  reverie.  How  had  Geraldi  changed  ? 
—  for  he  had  altered;  what  gave  him  the 
swing  of  confidential  ease  in  presence  of 
others,  which  formerly  her  freedom  of  inter- 
course had  alone  permitted  him  ?  In  hei 
long  lazy  days  Geraldine  marvelled  much. 
In  old  times  of  childish  peace  she  had  de- 
pended on  him  for  sympathy  if  not  for 
amusement ;  his  contrasting  company  wa' 
needful  to  make  her  vitality  effervesce.  She 
had  never  done  without  him,  and  knew  not 
how  to  do.  But,  surely  she  had  him  still ; 
who  else  cared  for  his  presence  ?  Yet  he 
was  often,  and  very  often,  absent. 

Geraldi  was  at  the  age  of  manhood,  when 
Geraldine,  yet  lingering  a  girl,  was  married ; 
he  was  now  a  fresh-formed  man.  So  she 
realized  as  a  woman  since  her  married  sepa- 
ration ;  till  then  she  had  been  conscious  of  a 
relation  brotherly  as  fond.  He  meant  their 
relation  to  alter,  in  kind  or  in  degree ;  but 
while  the  strong  chain  slipped  over  her,  she 
recognized  not  that  a  captor's  hand  had 
dropped  it. 

For  yet  another  excuse  M'as  hers  —  she 
had  neither  mother  nor  grandmother  in  any 
but  a  legal  sense.  The  mother,  who  should 
be  to  the  child  all  sympathy,  as  the  mother's 
mother.  Wisdom  in  experience,  had  never 
touched  her  soul,  nor  claimed  to  instruct  her 
heart ;  her  mother  existed  for  society  —  the 
present;  her  gi-andmother  for  family  —  the 
past.  Between  two  such  shadoM-y  supporters, 
the  child  and  grandchild  slipped.  True,  she 
should  never  have  forsaken  that  estate  which 
for  a  woman  supersedes  all  influences  of 
parentage  and  ancestry ;  but  she  scarcely 
forsook  them  as  a  woman  grown,  albeit  as  a 
wife.  So  deprived,  or  having  deprived  her- 
self of  her  natural  support,  she  fell  back  on 
her  old  one,  which  had  never  failed  her. 
But  her  fancy  was  troubled  with  the  fact, 
that  whether  his  support  remained  to  her  or 
not,  it  was  for  the  most  part  invisible.  Ge- 
raldi, from  the  time  of  his  return  with  hei, 
was  for  some  time  Avhole  days  absent,  always 
part  of  each  day.  Whither  he  went  she 
could  not  dream,  nor  what  pursuits  he  had 
adopted  in  London,  which  could  be  carried 
forward  in  Italy.  Whether  he  even  went 
beyond  the  gardens  she  could  not  tell,  as 
she  could  not  search  them  herself  and  did 
not  choose  to  take  any  person  into  her  con- 
fidence. And  without  his  society  she  lan- 
guished ;  of  course  in  a  nature  like  hers  such 
desire  could  not  perpetually  languish,  but 
must  declare  itself  There  was  no  sacrifice 
of  pride  to  declare  such  need  to  him  ;  was  he 
not  her  own  cousin  —  her  own  blood  ?  To 
him  had  she  not  been  ever  kind  ?     So,  very 


14G 


RUMOR. 


Roon  she  stretched  out  her  -weak  hands  to 
him  when,  after  brief  and  distantly-con- 
ducted visits,  he  turned  to  leave  the  room, 
and  called  aloud  on  him  out  of  her  solitude, 
to  remain  with  her  and  console  her. 

Hfii-e  was  the  first-fruit  of  the  triumph  — 
her  fingers  plucked  it  for  him,  and  cast  it 
at  his  feet.  To  make  himself,  and  to  be, 
needful  to  her  —  she  who  had  disdained  his 
need  !  From  that  moment  she  was  in  his 
power,  for  life  —  he  knew  that ;  but  who 
shall  say  what  is  life  ?  how  long  the  power 
in  which  we  hold  those  breathing,  by  our 
breath,  shall  last  ? 

Geraldi,  like  Agag  of  old  to  him  who 
should  slay  him,  came  delicately  to  Geral- 
dine's  command.  He  had  refrained  just  as 
delicately  on  the  journey  ;  but  then  she  had 
been  too  weak  to  want  him  absolutely. 
Now,  the  heart  she  had  rudely  weaned  from 
its  natural  sustenance,  craved  the  like  food 
—  love.  Not  for  the  world  would  Geraldi 
have  startled  her  away  by  relapses  into  his 
old  fierceness  —  he  had  actually  outgrown 
them.  So,  though  he  was  less  demonstra- 
tive, he  gave  much  more  support ;  and  as 
his  form  set  to  its  final  mould,  his  mind  set 
also,  and  was  one  of  those  unimaginative, 
self-reliant,  definite  ones,  wholly  without 
genius  or  modesty.  His  opinions,  correct  or 
false,  all  sounded'  right,  because  they  never 
faltered.  For  instance,  though  he  never 
spoke  of  Albany  of  his  own  accord,  it  was 
he  who,  when  she  gave  him  her  husband's 
first  letter  to  read,  denounced  it  with  one 
■withering  frown,  one  blighting  word  —  and 
decided  her  without  advising  —  not  to  an- 
swer it.  Then  the  melancholy  fear  that  time 
assumed,  touched  her  far  more  than  the  old 
black  tempest;  yet  that  ch/ud  but  for  him 
disguised  the  black  and  seething  hell  of  his 
own  thoughts,  the  rage  of  his  desires  beneath 
them  ;  the  suspense  necessary  half  maddened 
him ;  but  who  knows  not  the  craft,  the  calm 
of  the  unproved  madman  ?     Such  were  his. 

Then  when  Geraldine  reflected,  between 
her  romances  —  such  became  his  visits  —  she 
also  wondered  exceedingly  how  he  had  con- 
trived to  achieve  the  air  and  even  the  grace 
of  one  habituated  to  worldly  society  ;  and 
how  he  managed  no  longer  to  be  poor.  Had 
he  found  a  gold-mine  at  which  he  dug  in 
those  long  absences  ?  Geraldi  actually  had 
money ;  indeed,  from  the  way  he  displayed 
it,  in  handfuls  negligently,  or  dispensed  it  in 
domestic  largess,  she  fancied  he  must  be 
very  rich.  Truly,  what  he  had.  he  ^lusoanded 
well,  and  the  god  of  evii  made  it  prosper, 
though  it  was  neither  found  nor  inherited  — 
only  earned,  and  earned  for  service.  Geraldi 
had,  in  fact,  become  a  subaltern  —  he  had 
not  talents  for  a  chief,  in  a  theatrical  com- 
pany scarcely  superior  to  a  strolling  one. 
And  this  same  office  tliat  paid  him  his  due 
deserts,  also  gave  him  the  social  air,  the 
grace  of  costume,  the  self-possession  Geral- 
dine w  ondered  at ;  though  he  owed  it  to  his 


inborn  nobility  that  his  stage-breeding  wai 
never  detected  at  its  source. 

Dabblers  in  one  art  or  calling  often  piclj 
up  the  rudiments  of  another,  or  others,  by 
the  way.  So  Geraldi  found.  He  had  con- 
trived, "fe-vv  and  brief  as  had  been  his  inter- 
views with  Rodomant,  the  true  master,  to 
learn  from  him  sufficient  to  prevent  his  con- 
founding the  true  with  the  fulse  —  in  art. 
So  he  never  confided  in  mock  or  mimic  ar- 
tists, to  his  own  detriment  or  despite.  Xot 
one  of  the  actors  in  the  trou])e  he  had 
joined  knew  his  real  name  or  rank  ;  he  even 
passed  for  one  sprung  absolutely  from  the 
people,  and  raised  to  the  part  he  played. 
The  operas  were  insignificant  ones. 

The  theatre  almost  entirely  patronized  by 
the  people  and  the  peasantry  —  for  it  was 
not  in  the  town  next  his  grandmother's 
house,  but  in  an  inferior  village,  scai'cely 
ever  passed  through  by  strangers.  Among 
the  audience,  he  was  welcomed  most  cor- 
dially, as  an  aristocrat  in  undress  will  ever 
be  with  those  he  calls  and  deems  his  natural 
detesters  —  no  persons  actually  so  love  and 
appreciate  refined  politeness.  Geraldi  could 
aftbrd  to  be  polite  to  them  —  amidst  them 
he  was  actually  superior,  therefore  acted  as 
an  equal  —  this  equality  led  to  a  peculiar, 
yet  natural,  result. 

One  evening  he  stole  into  Geraldine's 
room  —  in  old  times  he  never  went  to  her 
room,  but  met  her  in  the  gardens.  Now  he 
went  to  her  room  unasked  —  yet  seemed 
not  intrusive,  because  he  went  so  seldom. 
This  evening  it  was  little  likely  she  should 
think  him  so  —  she  had  longed  so  for  his 
coming,  which  was  never  now  a  certainty  till 
he  had  come.  He  looked  grand  to  her 
vision  as  he  advanced,  dilated  in  the  twilight 
with  a  golden  shadow  on  his  pale  dark  vis- 
age, and  the  evening  fires  burning  in  his 
!  brown  trans])arent  eyes.  Round  his  statu- 
esque curls,  like  black  carved  marble,  a  tri- 
I  umph  seemed  to  gather,  merely  from  the 
]  position  of  his  head,  thrown  back  more 
proud  than  merely  haughty.  Geraldine  felt 
jealous  —  that  triumph  had  invested  him  as 
he  entered,  she  feared  it  had  not  brightened 
with  her  smiles.  Not  that  he  thought  of 
another  woman,  no  suspicious  cloud  had 
drifted  by  his  desperate  impulse  across  her 
imagination,  yet  so  pure.  But  she  feared 
wildly  to  lose  his  love,  she  gazed  upon  him 
with  the  timid  imploring  sadness  of  one  who 
has  a  frieird  —  to  whom  that  one  is  the  ojily 
friend. 

"  What  is  it,  Geraldine  ?  "  he  asked,  after 
letting  her  spend  many  moments  in  the  vain 
and  thirsting  glance.  And  he  laid  his  cool 
hand  on  her  forehead  gently,  where  of  old 
his  kisses  rained  like  fiery  dews  —  night, 
morning,  noonday  —  every  time. 

"Nothing,"  she  faltered,  maiden-like. 

"But  you  surprise  me.  I  thought  you 
looked  as  if  you  were  going  to  say  8ome« 
thing." 


EUMOR. 


147 


"  1  ffas.  Have  you  taken  enough  care 
aliout  me,  to  wonder  where  I  went  so  often 
since  we  came  ?  " 

"  Oh,  often,  often  —  always  !  " 

"  Have  you  ever  wished  I  was  not  out  — 
Oh,  Geraldine  ! "  And  the  pahn  which 
pressed  her  forehead  still,  glowed  suddenly 
as  though  it  clasped  a  fiery  coal. 

"  Ah,  yes,"  she  answered,  sincere  in  very 
fervor,  and  simple  yet.  "  But  I  thought  you 
perhaps  were  husy." 

"  I  was,  and  so  shall  be  ;  but  it  was  all 
*.hat  I  might  become  more  fit  to  guide  and 
comfort  you.  One  cannot  learn  too  much, 
and  I  kiiew  less  than  little.  I  have  been 
studying." 

"What?  I  thought  you  had  done  some- 
thing, for  jou  have  made  money,  Geraldi." 

A  smile,  too  cunning  to  part  the  Ii])s, 
flitted  over  his.  "  Yes,"  he  said  quietly, 
"  some,  and  I  mean  to  have  more  —  my  dues 
with  those  of  many  thousand  men.  Geral- 
dine,  what  would  you  say  to  tilts'^  I  am  a 
soldier  now." 

"A  soldier?  Oh,  how  delighted  I  am! 
But  not  surprised.  An  officer,  of  course, 
Geraldi  ?  " 

"  Oh,  of  course,  an  officer." 

"  In  which  regiment,  Geraldi  ?  Did  the 
duke  see  you  ?  did  you  go  to  him  ?  did  he 
send  for  you  ?  "  The  duke  was  the  mild  ig- 
norant —  futile  while  absolute  —  regnant  of 
that  ])rovince. 

"  No  —  the  duke  did  not  see  me  —  mine 
is  a  higher  master,  his  claims  broad  as  free- 
dom —  his  kingdom  wider  than  this  land. 
He  is  crowned  with  human  happiness  —  his 
sceptre  is  plenty,  his  rule  the  only  secure 
peace.     His  name  is  Liberty." 

Geraldine  started  and  stared  —  she  posi- 
tively did  not  understand  him  —  his  magnil- 
oquence charmed,  however,  as  much  as  it 
excited  her,  and  that  was  all  he  required. 
He  had  simply  joined  the  republican  cause 
(whose  army  was  in  truth  as  vast  as  it  was 
undisciplined),  a  nvatural  result  of  a  contempt 
for  all  authorities  of  earth  and  heaven  —  a 
burning  and  restless  youth  —  a  lawless  pas- 
sion —  and  a  will  for  which  the  impossible 
existed  not. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

The  sickly  and  chilly  spring  of  Rodo- 
mant's  life  had  dissolved  with  its  mists  of 
doubt  and  hope  rainbows,  into  a  summer- 
time of  teeming  fervor,  and  all-creative 
strength  —  as  such  springs  sometimes  do. 
An  early  summer  —  whose  character  seemed 
to  have  taken  from  that  rare  climate  its  im- 
pression—  with  its  brilliant  dreamy  days, 
and  lucid  studious  nights.  That  inaugura- 
tion of  his  to  the  several  offices,  never  at- 
tained or  held  before  by  a  single  person  at  a 


time,  had  taken  place  immediately  before  hii 
first  patroness  had  read  of  and  commented 
on  it.  Yet  —  it  was  just  as  well  he  knew 
not,  with  his  simple  sensitiveness,  thrs^fact 
—  the  cluster  of  incidents,  out  of  which  an 
editor  of  a  continental  newspaper  of  one 
day's  date,  one  week  in  this  millennium,  had 
made  a  constellation  of  interest  for  the  lim- 
ited circle  of  its  readers  —  the  facts,  related 
with  so  profound  an  interest  for  such,  found 
no  notice  whatever  in  any  English  paper ; 
there  was  no  room  for  them,  or  their  claims 
were  not  sufficiently  consequential. 

That  inauguration  had  been  a  superb  small 
festival  —  Rodomant  considered  it  a  sublime 
one.  No  wonder,  perhaps,  in  that  court 
where  conservatism — kept  calm  with  almost 
purple  state,  the  soft  magnificence,  the  drain 
of  prodigality,  whose  results  were  like  flying 
dreams  of  art  —  both  impregnated  the  hour 
and  the  occasion  with  an  excitement  that 
seemed  higher  than  the  human.  But  the 
fine  rite,  arranged  so  artfully  after  antique 
precedent,  would  on  the  contrary  have  struck 
his  fine  taste  as  a  gilt  and  velvet  pageant ; 
the  sword  of  the  order,  that  should  never  be 
unsheathed  in  battle,  as  an  ignoble  toy  ;  the 
other  decorations  as  tinsel  and  silken  tape ; 
but  for  the  sway  of  his  deep  secret,  that  ideal- 
ized all,  and  lit  each  formal  or  hollow  item 
with  a  glory  stolen  from  paradise. 

This  event  had  fallen  on  him  with  the  sur- 
prise peculiar  to  one  of  ideal  brain  and  heart 
unspoiled,  when  an  honor  undeserved  ac- 
crues to  him.  He  felt  it  undeserved,  and  it 
was  actually  unexpected,  for  though  he  had 
received  compliments  enough  from  the  prince, 
he  had  never  lent  them  any  real  meaning ; 
and  was  further  ignorant  that  his  marked  in- 
dependence of  demeanor  had  as  much  to  do 
with  the  satisfaction  he  elicited,  as  had  his 
productive  energy,  which  never  failed,  flag- 
ged, nor  refused  to  follow  and  fulfil  impulse. 
Never  had  the  prince  been  so  ceaselessly  di- 
verted from  the  exhaustion  of  his  old  pleas- 
ures, now  yielding  worse  weariness  than 
pain,  nor  from  the  hideous  thoughts  which 
haunted  that  black  place,  his  conscience,  as 
spectres  are  beheld  in  darkness.  The  per- 
ception of  the  beautiful  was  left  in  him  — 
as  in  how  many  of  the  basest  and  the  hard- 
est —  strange  argument  to  crush  the  sophism 
some  hold,  that  evil  natures  are  annihilated 
as  beings  altogether.  For  the  sense  of  beauty 
exists  and  can  exist  in  the  immortal  only. 
And  this  lovely  instinct  survived  in  one  for 
whom  all  others  had  sunk  beneath  the  human 
average  —  the  prince,  if  gratitude  had  not 
decayed  in  him,  would  have  actually  felt 
gratitude  towards  Rodomant,  when  he  dis- 
covered it  was  not  only  blood  and  rapine 
whose  tragic  moods  he  could  depict,  but  that 
no  poet-musician  had  ever  drawn  upon  the 
same  resources  for  the  development  of  the 
philosophy  of  passion  in  its  phases  the  high- 
est and  least  terrible  —  those  of  love.  Cold 
and  loveless  indeed  was  this  appreciation  — 


[48 


RUMOR. 


thai  of  th(  virtuoso  with  taste  refined  and 
rigorous,  rendered  inexorable  by  indulgence. 
He  admired  Rodomant's  works  for  their  con- 
summate art,  as  he  would  have  applauded  a 
skilful  sculpture  of  one  fresh  torn  from  the 
rack — each  strained  muscle  starting  —  in 
repose  ;  the  marble  agony  anatomically  cor- 
rect, the  torture  of  the  countenance  reflected, 
not  imagined. 

Those  weeks  when  Rodomant  labored  hard 
for  the  prince's  edification,  might  have  been 
set  down  to  his  account  as  first  lessons  in  the 
mockery  of  devotion  —  the  slavehood  of  the 
noble  will  chained  by  the  wishes  or  the  whims 
of  the  svil  and  unjust.  Or  they  might  seem 
so.  B'jt  there  is  only  one  case  in  which  a 
]iroud  and  self-reliant  nature  will  yield  im- 
plicit obedience  to  the  rules  of  one  unloved 
—  unserved  in  heart.  Rodomant,  in  serving 
the  tjrant  and  the  time,  misserved  not  Art ; 
no  force,  nor  fraud,  nor  promise  of  all  he 
longed  for,  would  have  dragged  him  to  that 
ground  of  degradation.  Had  his  own  un- 
worldly strain  of  composition  been  objection- 
able, or  not  acceptable  there,  he  would  have 
gone,  even  if  he  had  plucked  out  his  heart 
and  bunied  it  at  the  gray  convent  gates  ;  or 
the  spirit,  which  gives  life  to  being  bound 
in  clay,  had  given  up  the  ghost,  and  flown 
to  heaven,  on  the  borders  of  that  land  of 
promise. 

But,  without  doing  violence  to  his  artistic 
honor,  he  could  remain  — nay,  make  himself 
necessary  rather  than  of  consequence  ;  there- 
fore he  staid  —  and  for  what  guerdon  ?  un- 
guessed  by  ruler  or  courtier,  even  by  the 
person  who  unconsciously  bestowed  it.  To 
go  back  some  moments  in  his  history;  the 
unselfishness  of  love  and  the  selfishness  of 
passion  —  what  word-artist  or  philosopher 
shall  ever  exhaust  that  theme  ?  The  antago- 
nists that  in  every  opposition  learn  to  blend, 
who  close  in  combat,  endanger  each  other's 
existence,  yet  whose  final  thrust  melts  into 
an  embrace,  and  they  are  one ;  the  perfect 
whole,  whose  elements  defied  each  other  to 
unite,  yet  whose  warfare  was  more  great  and 
strong  than  that  between  love  and  hate,  or 
hate  and  passion.  From  love,  Rodomant 
the  untamable,  who  could  not  be  taught 
behivior,  imbibed  propriety  without  learning 
it.  The  unmannered,  reticent,  abrupt,  grew 
graceful,  sympathetic,  assimilative.  No  fitful 
frame  nor  mood  grotesque — not  a  look  or 
phrase  to  startle  her.  And  strong,  indeed, 
with  the  man'.';  untarnished  moral  armor, 
must  have  been  the  love,  for  the  fight  be- 
t-ween  it  and  its  brother-enemy  —  the  passion, 
went  on  in  her  presence  unseen  as  the  rush- 
ing of  the  life-blood  ;  it  was  maintained  in  a 
deep  and  secret  place  —  the  lover's  heart  — 
a  separate  place  from  her  as  well  as  to  her 
unknown  ;  for  was  not  she  given,  if  not  prom- 
ised, to  another  ?  This  fact,  indisputable 
because  he  never  disputed  it,  thundered 
Toicelessly  in  his  conscience,  which,  clear 
•  ad  void  of  evil,  echoed  it  without  pity  — 


self-pity,  passion's  arch-deceiver.  But  yet, 
for  the  silence  with  which  they  grapj^ltd  in 
her  presence,  these  foes  who  might  become 
closest  friends,  their  victim,  who  was  yev 
their  master,  revenged  himself  on  himself 
and  them  when  he  was  alone.  Great  strug- 
gles, physical  as  convulsion,  racked  his 
frame,  the  restraint  reacted  in  groans  ut- 
tered, as  well  as  tho.se  too  deep  for  utter- 
ance. He  grovelled  on  the  ground  because 
such  place  alone  befitted  him ;  face  to  face 
with  clay  he  felt  as  though  he  drew  nearer 
death  —  that  only  heaven  of  desj)air.  Sweats, 
heavy  as  if  drawn  by  scourges  self-inflicted, 
soaked  his  sleepless  pillow,  and  wrung  from 
his  brain  in  water  what  might,  in  its  primal 
flame,  have  burned  to  madness.  With  such 
long  strifes,  the  body  wasted,  but  no  disease 
made  way  for  itself  through  the  impaired 
and  fretted  medium,  only  the  spirit  seemed 
more  freely  to  penetrate  it,  as  moonlight  that 
only  mocks  the  surface  of  stone  with  glory, 
filters  lustrous  through  chisel-thinned  ala- 
baster. 

The  princess  marked  a  change,  but  under- 
stood it  not,  and  was  anxious  till  she  proved 
that,  M-hatever  the  affection  was,  it  obstructed 
not  energy,  nor  touched  actual  health.  But 
her  anxiety  informed  more  deeply  than  be- 
fore, her  interest,  always  strong,  as  it  had 
been  of  sudden  growth.  His  perfect  sin- 
cerity and  truth  untainted,  not  his  genius, 
had  drawn  from  her  much  of  her  life's  pure 
confidence  ;  and  the  revelations  of  his  genius, 
as  a  woman  mastered  her  afterwards,  before 
she  was  aware.  But  she  was  aware,  and  not 
unwilling  to  own,  that  as  a  friend  he  had 
crept  into  her  heart.  And  while  for  him  she 
felt  friendly  only,  she  was  safe  with  as  from 
him,  not  a  ray  of  fascination  —  from  the 
lightsome  and  varied  treasury  he  owned  in 
common  with  those  rare  beings,  men  of 
great  hearts  and  sovereign  minds  —  he  .suf- 
fered to  escape  through  his  manner,  impene- 
trable even  when  sincere. 

From  the  day  he  saw  her  in  the  dungeon 
proved  it  was  no  dream  that  so  she  spent 
her  time,  felt  her  singular  and  pathetic  char- 
acter through  the  aspect  of  her  helpless 
charity ;  he  had  decided  on  his  course.  In 
the  first  place,  that  he  loved  her,  and  might 
adore  her  still,  that  he  had  the  right,  so 
long  as  he  jx  ssessed  himself  of  the  power 
to  conceal  from  her  the  least  sign  of  the 
fact,  its  shadow's  shadow.  That  next,  he 
had  not  the  right  to  betray  to  her  —  nay,  on 
the  housetops  to  proclaim  his  preference  — 
merely  because  she  preferred  not  supremely, 
him.  Thirdly,  he  thought  —  he  would  have 
said  he  svas  certain  —  he  knew  whom  she 
preferred,  and  so  believing,  he  considered  it 
not  only  his  right  but  his  duty,  to  convey  to 
her  by  all  and  every  means  his  own  impres- 
sion of  the  person  so  marvellously  favored. 
This  he  had  done  invariably  whenever  he 
had  the  opportunity,  and  with  as  little  effect 
as    he   would    have  persuaded   her   of  the 


RUMOR. 


149 


scentlessnesR  of  the  rose.  But  now  he 
bethouofht  himself  to  employ  other  means 
than  such  as  he  had  vainly  exhausted  — 
means  certainly  fair  and  legitimate,  though 
unprecedented,  because  they  were  placed  in 
the  pnwer  of  no  one  else,  and  besides  would 
have  failed  to  affect  ordinary  —  oi  most 
extraordinary  women. 

The  very  day  he  had  seen  her  in  her 
morning  audience,  breathinia:  comfort  where 
she  C3uld  not  save,  she  sent  for  him  after 
her  return.  He  reached  the  rooms  after  the 
mid-day  sleep,  which  had  been  neither  sleep 
nor  rest  to  her  ;  it  seldom  was,  in  fact  those 
hours  alone  she  dreamed,  those  only  hours 
she  allotted  to  what  she  would  have  named 
selfish  —  that  is,  maiden  reflection  on  the 
future,  the  hoped-for,  the  untried  —  the 
secret-chosen  she  believes  has  of  her  made 
secret  choice. 

She  was  of  the  temperament  so  difficult 
to  save  from  the  minute  mom^entary  shocks 
of  which  such  myriads  go  to  make  up  one 
day's  suffering.  Brigh^  —  never  brilliant  — 
but  bright  at  evening,  in  aspect  and  of  intel- 
lect, she  seemed  to  brighten  with  the  star- 
time,  with  M'hose  glory  her  glances  wore 
affinity,  as  well  as  her  lofty,  yet  dewy-tender 
thoughts.  But  in  the  morning-light  her 
lustre  waned,  or  was  veiled  under  a  spotless 
cloud  ;  her  pallor  was  ever  then  remarkable, 
though  instinct  with  her  beauty  still.  Fa- 
tigue and  the  sadness  gathered  from  her 
chief  pursuit,  touched  her  paleness  with 
mortal  reminiscence,  which  at  night  dropped 
from  her  expression  of  spiritual  radiance 
and  more  than  mortal  purity. 

That  tintless  pallor,  when  Rodomant  be- 
held, sent  a  trembling  terror  through  him  ; 
so  did  the  soft-azure  shadow  round  eyes 
whose  color  and  very  meaning  seemed  to 
retreat  more  from  the  sight  by  day.  So  did 
the  natural  exhaustion  of  the  frame  at  once 
so  delicate  and  highly  strung  —  this  seemed 
unnatural  languor. 

Love's  unhallowed  idea  quivered  like 
wings  heard  in  darkness,  through  his  brain  ; 
a  phantom  paler  than  she  rose  and  stood 
still  before  him.  The  name  love  will  not 
whisper,  was  echoed  without  a  word  by  the 
swell  of  his  low  sighs  to  his  throbbing  ear  — 
the  idea,  the  phantom,  the  name  of  Death. 
"  She  will  die  —  she  will  die  !  "  seemed  reit- 
erated ruthlessly,  as  a  lost  and  wandering 
strain  of  music  no  player  shall  ever  give  life 
to.  A  white  and  rentless  veil,  rigid  as 
iron  and  cold  as  ice,  fell  between  his  pas- 
sionate presentiment  and  her.  Sense  could 
never  clasp,  nor  mortal  love  inthrall  her  — 
to  Death  no  virgin  ever  broke  her  promise. 

Then  love  rose  mighty  —  mightier  than 
passion,  as  the  tide  is  surer  than  the  tem- 
pest—  strangled  the  suspicion  and  dashed  it 
backwards  —  dead.  Rent  the  veil  of  ice 
and  iron  with  one  glance  of  tenderness,  and 
saw  the  living  countenance  —  pallid,  but 
redeemed    from    death.      One    warm    sigh 


swept  the  phantom,  like  a  trail  of  mist,  to 
space  ;  one  gush  of  Jove's  great  song,  that 
harmonizes  Heaven  and  Creation,  devoured 
the  weak  echo  without  a  name.  And  love 
uttered  to  silence,  passion  listening,  —  "  she 
shall  live  —  not  for  me  —  but  through  me." 

In  that  mood  the  musician  sat  down  to 
his  machine  —  no  marvel  at  the  result. 
Yet  she  wondered  —  that  was  well;  it  was 
first  on  his  list  of  designs  to  conquer  the 
monotony  of  her  being  —  that  dead  sea  on 
which  her  happiness  eluded  her,  was  floated 
wide  —  seemed  lost.  He  played  so  as  to 
strike  great  shocks  on  deepest-ringing  iron, 
clashing  brass,  sweet-thrilling  silver ;  all 
metals  seemed  to  lend  their  power  to  tone 
—  not  merely  every  instrument  of  art  was 
mocked,  but  every  voice  of  nature  mim- 
icked ;  seas  surged,  great  thunders  seemed 
to  blast  the  rocks,  fresh-shivering  breezes 
after  rain  seemed  rustling  in  the  myriad 
leaves,  birds  crowded,  chirped,  and  clam- 
ored. First  then,  the  princess  rose  from  the 
seat  she  had  taken,  and  came  quickly  where 
she  could  see  his  hands.  They  and  the  keys 
flashed  against  each  other  like  showers  of 
dancing  snow  flakes,  or  conflicting  millions 
of  elfish  meteors  —  difficulty  was  derided, 
impossibility  achieved,  execution  outdone  by 
craft.  Then  all  spelled  and  quieted,  a  lull- 
ing lay  woke  warily  —  as  not  to  waken  some 
sleeper  or  the  sleeping  woe.  A  dew  of 
music,  such  as  might  drop  in  dreams  on  the 
musician's  brain ;  she  stole  back  to  her 
seat,  and  slept  with  her  forehead  on  her 
hand. 

"  I  can  do  as  T  will,"  he  thought.  Yet  it 
was  natural  after  fatigue,  if  soothed,  to 
rest  —  music  had  but  medicined  nature. 

This  was  the  first  and  least  of  his  caprices. 
Of  course,  the  fancy  he  had  framed  about 
Porphyro  grew  certainty  —  or,  rather,  from 
being  a  double  fancy,  became  a  double  fact. 
How  she  first  received,  or  he  fii-st  dared  to 
impart,  the  impression,  Rodomant  could  not 
tell ;  but  if  it  proved  the  selfishness  of  pas- 
sion, that  for  Porphyro's  doing  exactly  what 
he  would  have  done  himself  in  his  place, 
he  condemned  and  hated  Porphyro  ;  so  it 
proved  the  unselfishness  of  love  that  he 
neither  condemned  nor  despised  her  for  pre- 
ferring Porphyro  —  rather  pitied  her  the 
more  sincerely,  and  adored  her  with  loftier 
devotion.  Still,  he  never  spoke  of  Por- 
phyro again,  until  she  alluded  to  him  her- 
self—  small  credit  to  him  on  that  point,  as 
no  man  could  have  approached  the  subject 
without  the  indication  of  her  will.  But 
when,  as  he  foresaw  would  happen,  his 
music  became  to  her  a  solace  exquisite  and 
inseparable,  he  never  faile  o  make  use  of 
hands  moi-e  persuasive  ^  .  descriptive  than 
any  tongue.  Nor  tr"-  cd  he  to  chance  im- 
provisation, every  d,,  some  fresh  memorial 
reached  her,  of  'lamatic  genius  to  which 
there  was  no  tbe'ue  of  love  sealed  up  —  noi 
phase  of  passion  a  dead  note.     Love's  quar- 


150 


RUMOR. 


rels,  the  broken  heart,  the  waiting  hope, 
absence  and  meeting,  suspense,  misunder- 
standing, and  union  ;  such  were  the  initials 
of  his  art-narratives. 

"  What  is  that  ?  "  asked  the  princess  one 
day,  when  dispirited  and  weary  she  sat  down 
to  listen  —  and  some  vague,  cold  meaning 
touched  her  through  tangled  harmonies. 

"  This,"  said  Rodomant,  censoriously,  and 
loudly  —  without  leaving  off,  "  is  a  scene,  or 
rather  a  case,  of  a  woman's  self-deception. 
Bittir,  wild  fruits  she  plucks  on  a  dusty 
■waj.k,  find  presses  them  to  her  lips,  till  she 
pt-'rsuades  herself  they  are  sweet  and  all- 
refreshing,  because  the  perfume  of  her 
kisses  touched  them.  Thorns  she  snatches, 
and  believes  them  roses,  for  she  tears  her 
hands  with  them,  and  the  blood  is  bright  as 
roses  —  her  heart's  blood,  though  dropped 
from  her  wounded  hands.  Delusions  she 
covets — and  nature  helps  her  to  create  — 
she  sees  clear  waters  lying  far  out  across  the 
golden  sands  ;  she  flies  to  them,  they  fleet 
from  her  —  at  a  glance  of  the  sun  they  are 
gone,  and  she  sinking  to  the  hot  and  yield- 
ing ground,  has  her  parched  mouth  filled 
and  choked  with  dust.  Torment  and  an- 
guish spring  like  giant  shadows  from  her 
solitude.     She  will  not  bear  them  company 

—  she  renders  up  her  solitude  to  Another, 

—  no  shadow — she  will  not  be  alone. 
Alone  ?  Before,  she  was  alone  with  soli- 
tude, God's  freedom  ;  now  she  is  alone  with 
a  corpse  —  Death's  solitude.  Then,  by  the 
side  of  the  love  she  sought  living,  and  found 
dead,  her  love  lies  down,  and  dies.  But  pas- 
sion, that  cannot  die  vnshared,  goes  mad 
with  her,  and  in  the  hideous  duality —  love- 
less, frenzied  —  she  whirls  about  creation 
long  after  her  life's  end.  She  will  not  rid 
herself  of  the  phantom  —  for  it  is  a  phan- 
tom, heavy  as  a  nightmare  —  for  confession 
alone  will  lay  it ;  and  she  will  not  confess  — 
no  woman  ever  will  —  that  she  was  deceived, 
not  in  love,  but  in  what  she  loved !  " 

So  raved  Rodomant,  in  the  pauses  of  his 
magic  ;  his  unillumined  and  fantastic  theme, 
groped  out  in  crude  and  darklhig  transitions. 
Certainly  such  wild,  boyish  words  should  but 
have  excited  to  mirth;  perhaps  roused  to 
satire,  a  woman  as  wise  as  the  princess. 
Why  then  the  proud  silence,  that  yet  from 
\\".  aspect's  changeful  anger  seemed  as  if  it 
must  rend  itself  with  indignant  negative  ? 
Why  the  dropped  eyes  not  with  contempt, 
but  a  pained  and  curious  shame  ?  why  the 
(juick  hectic,  kindled  sudden  clear  as  fire,  on 
the  cheek's  pure  pallor  ?  And  why  the  re- 
treat, not  the  f>ugust  and  quiet  step  that  of 
habit  seemed  b.  'rn  to  tread  —  not  on  necks, 
but  flowers  it  '^"hi  d  to  crush ;  but  rapid  and 
impetuous,  as  \  "iven  ?  No  salute,  no 
turning  of  the  heai.  nd,  after  that  day,  no 
summons  to  the  mins.     '  for  many  days. 

That  Porphyro  was  ..  -  of  the  great,  few 
i  1  all  the  ages.  One  o.  •  he  chosen  —  by 
God,  or  the  god  of  the  godless  -    Occasion  — 


which  means  not  the  same  as  Circumstanoe, 
the  secular  name  for  Providence.  He  waa 
one  who  could  and  should  oidy  be  judged 
by  the  children  of  the  future,  who  Mill  wall- 
lightly  over  our  resting  dust.  For  they, 
whether  their  natural  gifts,  their  advantages 
of  culture,  their  purity  of  judgment,  are  to 
transcend  ours  or  not,  will  certainly  survey 
the  past  through  no  heat-mist  of  excitement 
nor  glow  of  heart-enthusiasm  ;  nothing  pre- 
pares prejudice  like  the  passion  of  personal 
experience,  before  its  object  is  laid  in  earth, 
from  which  springs  only  the  rigid  truth,  cold 
as  the  marble  of  the  monument. 

Porphyro  was  a  strange  person.  The 
Creator  must  have  loved  him,  and  it  maybe, 
as  Humanity's  best  Friend  loved  the  man.Avho 
sorrowed  because  he  could  not  bear  to  leave 
all  things  for  that  love.  Alas  !  for  Porphyro 
—  for  the  great  and  dominant,  whose  hearts 
beat  too  low  and  even  to  be  listened  to,  md 
heard,  in  the  busy  working-day,  through  the 
crashing  incessant  turn  of  Labor's  wneel, 
and  the  grinding  footsteps  of  Oblivion's 
Progress.  In  the  cool  of  the  day,  that  pulse 
might  be  heard  to  beat,  a  lulling  and  tender 
promise  ;  as  the  first  Time-servers  heard  the 
voice  of  divine  love  in  the  pulses  of  the 
leaves  of  Paradise  ;  in  the  evening  too  when 
Labor  paused,  and  Progress  treading  down 
the  moments  ever,  trod  in  silence.  But 
these  Sabbaths  were  too  short  for  Porphyro  to 
learn  in  them  even  the  alphabet  of  that  great 
philosophy  —  the  heavenly  philosophy  of 
love  —  as  available  for  earth  and  every  prin- 
ciple of  utility  ;  which,  in  gratifying  its  own 
impulse  for  satisfaction,  only  compasses  that 
to  fulfil  the  happiness  of  another  —  or  of 
many  others,  —  or  of  all  the  world. 

Porphyro  had  a  heart  whose  every  pulsa- 
tion, measured  by  himself  or  not,  was  benef- 
icent ;  but  he  was  without  impulse  entirely. 
He  had  an  ingrained  generosity  in  lieu  of, 
and  greater  than,  all  nobility  ;  he  had  never 
trodden  on  a  worm,  nor  spurned  the  most 
degrading  weakness  of  any  one  who  had 
trusted  him.  His  head  contained  a  brain  of 
that  order,  which  precisely,  because  perfectly 
in  order,  was  able  to  issue  rules  irrefragable, 
in  cases  where  men  of  vast  talents  or  the 
rarest  genius  owned  no  sway  at  all ;  or,  if 
they  essayed  such,  were  foiled  disgracefully. 
A  brain  was  his,  close  as  com])act  and  fu'l  -- 
and  busy  as  a  beehive  with  ])etty  ])lane  fc  r 
the  amelioration  of  all  humanity  ;  little  iOgic 
for  the  solution  of  gigantic  myster'es,  all, 
to  do  him  justice,  animated  and  r.'ndered 
possible  to  his  unimaginative  faith  by  his 
bounteous  if  not  boundless  heart.  Yet  the 
man  had  one  fine  trait  —  too  fine  and  rare 
not  to  escape  his  judges,  and  which  they 
never  detected  —  ht  was  strictly  honest.  He 
believed  sincerely  that  the  place  and  influ- 
ence he  coveted  —  nay  prophesied  and  in- 
tended for  himself — were  the  highest  to  be 
attained  by  man.  There  is  not  a  quistion, 
that  no  enforced  hero,  no  chosen  nJer  oi 


RUMOR. 


151 


time-appointed  chief,  ever  was  bo  sincere  in 
desiring  the  temporal  benefit  of  those  sub- 
mitted to  h.'s  destiny.  Had  Porphyro,  ^vith 
his  character,  owned  a  faith  firm  as  his  self- 
confidence,  he  might  have  regenerated  his 
kingdom—  had  he  possessed  a  heart  great 
as  his  genius,  he  might  have  regenerated  the 
world. 

But  yet,  to  account  for  the  attachment 
with  which  he  actually  inspired  the  many, 
and  the  intense  impression  he  produced  on 
a  few,  it  must  be  owned  that  his  was  no  ordi- 
nary fascination.  From  the  hour  in  which 
Fate  had  drawn  him  into  her  experience, 
Adelai'da  knew  Porphyro  admired,  as  he 
could,  loved  her.  Eminently  conscious  him- 
self of  whatever  his  fascination  might  con- 
sist in  —  and  it  was  natural,  or  it  had  not 
affiected  her  —  he  cast  his  spells  to  net  her 
virgin  faculties,  rather  than  her  heart  —  at 
first ;  or  perhaps  because  of  possessing  that 
also,  he  felt  perfectly  assured.  Caught  —  as 
is  the  phrase  —  first  himself —  not  entangled 
by  coquettish  charms,  but  captured  by  that 
star-like  essence  which,  glancing  from  her 
eyes,  betrayed  the  direction  of  her  being,  and 
which  he  could  not  bind  any  more  than  the 
Pleiad's  SM-eet  influences  themselves.  So 
affected,  at  once  his  resolve  was  taken. 
Without  impulse,  however,  the  resolve  re- 
mained one  ;  no  casting  of  himself  freely  at 
her  feet,  no  burning  and  blissfully-confused 
confession,  letting  out  young  passion  from 
its  bondnge  link  by  fiery  link  :  that  was  not 
Porphyro's  way.  And,  in  natural  course,  his 
unconscious,  because  natural,  duplicity  de- 
ceived himself  Though  he  had  never  ful- 
filled towards  her  the  man's  first  duty  of 
allegiance  —  self-offering  —  he  behaved  as 
though  that  were  achieved,  and  the  sacrifice 
accepted,  sealed  by  her  also.  He  wore  the 
ring  which  she  had  not  given  him,  but  he 
had  bestowed  upon  himself,  in  token  of  the 
desire  of  his  to  be  crowned,  and  therefore 
as  good  and  positive  as  possession. 

The  jirincess,  simple  in  the  greatness  of 
her  intelligence,  of  boundless,  and  all-embra- 
cing heart,  had  sorely  suffered,  though  none, 
till  Rodomant,  ever  guessed  it  or  suspected. 
Perhaps  this  was  the  reason  that  she,  the 
proudest  of  women  in  her  virtue,  was  not 
angered  really  —  only  outwardly  —  by  the 
strong  indignant  sympathy  of  the  only  being 
who  ever  dared  —  as  a  subject,  or  cared  as 
a  man  —  to  fathom  her  mysterious  pain,  and 
probe  it  to  its  depth.  Sorely  had  she  suf- 
fered ;  for  she  whose  profound  and  most 
essential  passion  had  never  been  touched  or 
breathed  on,  far  less  called  into  sympathetic 
life,  had  felt  PorphjTo's  fascination  too 
strongly  for  her  peace  —  her  pride.  Bewil- 
dered by  it,  she  could  not  deny  it  to  herself. 
She  had  listened  to  his  dissertations  on  the 
benefaction  of  humanity,  when  the  dry  bones 
of  effete  arguments,  scraped  from  the  four 
winds,  were  vitalized  by  his  generous  feeling 
with  a  transient  breath,  that  seemed  to  her 


immortal  longing.  And  her  mind  —  wise  as 
ever  dwelt  in  woman,  though  not  knowing 
more  than  woman's  should  be  —  rose  ex- 
panded to  the  theme.  Then,  at  the  time  she 
first  saw  him,  he  was  poor  and  powerless, 
and  only  not  an  outcast  because  he  owned  to 
no  country  which  could  cast  him  forth.  She 
was  rich,  had  a  fixed  position,  and,  if  she 
lived,  would  one  day  have  power  of  her  own. 
But  in  all  the  pride  of  her  own  genuine 
modesty,  she  seemed  tc  perceive  his  reflected  ; 
he  should  suffer  on  account  of  neither.  She 
had  given  him  opportunities  to  declare  his 
devotion  —  opportunities  so  guileless,  chaste 
vet  subtle,  that  women  would  have  smiled 
"at,  and  men  have  mocked  them  as  such. 
Yet  these  all  stood  against  her,  unacknowl- 
edged, unresponded  to.  Brief  language,  a 
few  expressive  simple  words — how  many 
souls  for  lack  of  these  have  been  drunk  up 
in  despair's  black  gulf!  how  many  hearts 
have  drifted  from  their  anchorage  on  life's 
calm  summer  sea,  and  been  lost  in  wild 
mid-ocean ! 

Though  the  princess  had  sufl^ered  a  vague 
melancholy  in  her  hours  of  occupation  —  a 
deep,  true  trouble  in  her  hours  of  trance, 
both  had  sprung  from  a  poetic  sorrow  almost 
too  tender  to  wish  away;  till  Rodomant's 
strange  conduct,  and  ingenuous  swerve  from 
precedent,  had  appalled  her  hopes.  In  pro- 
portion, however,  as  she  prized  his  franknesS; 
always  the  rarest  quality  revealed  to  one  in 
her  position  ;  she  desired  to  disembarrass  him 
also  of  Ms  idea,  which  she  fondly  determined 
to  believe  he  entertained  through  ignorance. 

The  night,  rather  the  evening,  before  Rod- 
omant's inauguration,  there  came  a  knock 
at  his  door,  not  the  door  of  the  ante-cham- 
ber, but  his  own  inmost  and  secluded  apart- 
ment. Unprecedented  circumstance !  Ser- 
vants were  wont  to  appear  in  doorways, 
whose  draperies  they  lifted,  statue-calm  and 
silent,  whether  they  came  to  lay  tables,  or 
to  bring  written  orders.  Pages  had  their 
privilege  of  all  ages,  to  dance  in  and  out. 
But  neither  knocked,  it  was  not  fashion  in 
Belvidere,  save  for  supreme  personages, 
when  they  chose  to  visit  those  of  lower  de- 
gree. Rodomant  hastened  to  the  door,  the 
princess  entered.  It  was  well  he  was  habitu  • 
ated  to  surprises  such  as  small  events  be- 
come to  the  supernaturally  sensitive ;  for 
otherwise  he  might  have  committed  the 
fatal,  for  in  this  case  disloyal,  blunder  of 
evincing  his  surprise.  Quiet,  reverent,  but 
not  prodigal  of  word-homage,  he  received 
this  honor  for  the  first  time  She  had  never 
entered  his  own  room  before.  A  great 
change  had  passed  on  her,  swift  as  an  Alpine 
spring,  sweeping  winter  to  the  molten  snows 
—  since  but  a  few  hours  ago,  M-hen  he  saw 
her  last.  No  longer  pale,  her  face  siione  on 
him,  its  lilies  bathed  in  bloom  to  which  the 
rose  is  dead ;  her  lips  quivered  with  tha 
shadow  of  an  inward  smile,  whose  meaning 
was  not  for  men  to  read  and  interpret  out- 


152 


RUMOR. 


wardlj'.  Her  %vhole  aspect  betrayed  that  joy 
lends  a  charm  te"  beauty  more  divine  than 
that  of  sorrow  —  whatever  poets  may  say. 

"I  am  happy  to  say,"  and  her  voice  con- 
tradicted not  her  coiniteaance  —  "that  our 
friend  —  no  h)nger  to  be  called  Captain  — 
Porphyro  will  be  here  to-morrow  on  purpose 
to  hear  your  new  work,  and  to  see  you  in- 
vested." 

"  On  purpose  !  "  Yes,  the  words  were 
accented,  as  if  she  well  knew  what  excuse  he 
made,  and  thanked  for  it  herself,  the  cause 
of  the  excuse. 

"  That  is  not  all,"  said  Rodomant  to  him- 
eelf,  his  cynical  observation  not  affecting  his 
courtesy  —  yes,  courtesy,  the  ease  which 
gentle  passion,  strong  a's  gentle,  lends  the 
rude  and  proud.  "  That  is  not  all  —  she 
conceals  something ;  a  woman  alwavs  does. 
Thank  God  for  that  token  ;  she  is  fallible 
after  all.  She  wants  me  to  ask  her  too." 
This  was  true,  and  equally  true  that  she 
knew  not  she  desired  him  to  question  her. 
Few  men,  indeed,  stand  pure,  that  test  of 
being  needed  bj-  the  woman  of  their  pas- 
sion's choice  —  it  is  commonly  sufficient  for 
a  woman  to  show  that  she  requires  physical 
support  or  spiritual  help,  for  a  man  to  turn 
against  her  physically,  and  despise  her  in 
his  heart.  Not  so  Rodomant,  his  uncompro- 
mising nature  only  rebelled  against  power  ; 
therefore,  in  her  momentary  weakness,  he 
succored  her  by  an  impulse,  as  he  would 
have  risen  seraph-strong  to  aid  her  in  ex- 
tremest  mortal  exigency. 

"  Your  highness  will  excuse  me," — in  an 
interested  tone  —  "because  my  curiosity 
about  an  extraordinary  person  was  author- 
ized by  your  opinion.  I  cannot  forget  that 
he  spoke  kind  words  to  me,  and  procured  for 
me  advantages  I  can  neither  name  nor  num- 
ber. I  am  not  vain  enough,  though  perhaps 
I  am  too  proud,  to  take  any  part  of  the 
honor  of  his  visit  to  myself.  It  belongs  not 
to  me,  lait  by  virtue  of  the  representations 
or  misrepresentations  of  your  highness's  gen- 
erosity, that  the  comer  for  the  first  time  to  —  " 

"  Not  the  first  time,"  said  the  princess 
hurriedly,  with  a  flying  flush  —  though  he 
knew  that  l)efore  as  well  as  she,  therefore 
needed  not  to  hint  at  it. 

"  Oh,  of  course  not  —  I  recollect.  He 
rr.ust  have  been  here  before,  or  could  not  be 
kn»)wn  so  well  and  so  honorably  respected. 
But  he  came  —  as  I  came  —  a  servant;  and 
now  I  fancy  from  what  I  have  lately  heard 
whispered,  he  will  come  as  —  a  master." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  cried  she,  with  an  enthusiasm 
she  had  never  let  free  before.  She  took  a 
letter  from  the  folds  of  her  deep  girdle  — 
half-opened  it --then  closed  it,  with  fingers 
no  longer  snowy  —  they  blushed  like  her 
visage.  "  I  dare  say  you  know  all  then. 
You  are  a  politician,  and  study  the  wonder- 
ful library  whicli  is  issued  daily  in  a  thousand 
thousand  numbers  —  whose  leaves  Sibylline 
are   Si^ttered  by  millions   to   the  night,  as  | 


prophecies,  or  records  of  promises  unfulfilled, 
Vou  read  newspapers  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Rodomant,  "  I  don't  look  at 
papers,  princess,  I  have  no  time  ;  I  have  even 
left  off'  reading  Avhat  they  say  about  myself. 
But  all  old  ladies  like  reading  them  —  be- 
cause they  are  Sibylline,  I  suppose  —  and 
though  I  have  no  wife,  I  have  a  mother, 
which,  for  such  purposes,  is  as  good.  So  she 
writes  to  me,  and  as  she  is  my  mother,  and 
takes  the  trouble,  I  always  read  her  letters ; 
that  is  the  reason  I  have  no  time  to  read  let- 
ters of  lying  editors  to  the  gas])ing  frog  of 
a  jiublic  that  swallows  whole  whatever  is 
dropped  into  its  jaws  —  vermin  for  fresh  flies, 
and  marsh-mud  for  virgin  honey.  My 
mother,  in  the  last  of  her  long  letters,  tells  me 
that  the  old  king  of  Iris  —  the  king  I  saw 
looking  young  and  handsome  as  a  king  in 
waxwork  —  is  no  longer  a  king  ;  that  he  has 
turned  his  back  on  his  people  and  run  away. 
Except  that,  though  I  guess  something,  I 
know  nothing.  Oifi!  yes,  I  remember  my 
mother  went  on  to  say  that  it  had  been  a 
mistake  about  Babylon  the  great  being 
Rome,  for  it  was  Parisinia,  and  that  the 
abomination  of  desolation  was  not  to  happen 
in  the  East,  but  in  Iris.  There  was  also 
something  about  a  great  and  a  little  eagle 
which  I  could  not  understand.  Is  Porphyro 
king  yet  —  does  he  direct  now,  princess?" 

"  Not  king  —  never,  never  —  I  told  you 
so!  But  he  is  certainly  director.  You  have 
heard  nothing  ?  "  she  asked,  with  a  show  of 
surprise  which  tried  to  hide  the  delight  of 
being  the  one  to  explain  and  expatiate  on 
the  subject. 

"Nothing  —  I  knew  not  what  was  going 
on  —  I  had  no  right  —  I  was  busy  with  my 
petty  opera,  as  he  with  the  life-drama  he  di- 
rects." 

"  See  these  papers  —  read  them  all,"  she 
exclaimed,  bringing  out  from  a  fold  in  her 
dress  a  heap  her  narrow  hand  could  scarcely 
grasp.  "  You  will  then  learn  every  thing 
which  I  could  not  so  well  express.  I  have 
marked  the  paragraphs  referring  to  the  sub- 
ject, and  to  him.  You  will  glance  thi-ough 
them  quickly,  your  eye  is  so  rapid." 

Never  had  Rodomant  revealed  —  unre- 
vealed  to  her  blind  love  —  his  own  love  as  in 
this  instance.  If  any  other  woman  —  power 
upon  earth  or  not  —  had  given  him  a  bundle 
of  printed  news,  and  required  him  to  read 
them,  he  would  have  thrown  them,  if  not  in 
her  face,  most  certainly  on  the  floor,  and  re- 
fused to  pick  them  up.  These  he  took  calmly, 
and  examined  them  in  order  carefully,  it  was 
true  they  were  arranged  and  pencil-empha- 
sized, easy  to  decipher  their  meaning  if  one 
only  knew  the  name  of  Porphyro — and 
Rodomant  knew  more.  Quietly  he  read  and 
turned  the  sheets  —  in  some  instances  re- 
read a  paragraph.  At  last  laid  them  <^n  the 
table,  and  folded  his  arms  in  front  of  the 
princess,  who  now  stood  calm  as  he,  though 
her  cheeks  yet  burned  as  with  the  impresi 


RUMOR. 


153 


of  a  crimson  rose-leaf,  concentrated  blossom 
of  all  the  blushes  that  had  spent  themselves. 
"  I  see,"  he  began  in  a  tone  whose  temper 
alone  concealed  its  ironic  edge,  "  that  the 
Parisinians,  acting  for  all  the  towns  and 
country-places  throughout  Iris,  had  deter- 
mined to  govern  themselves.  Straightway, 
as  must  be  the  case  when  each  child  in  a 
nursery  or  play-room  wants  the  same  toy 
(and  there  is  but  one),  there  comes  to  pass  a 
childish  quarrel.  The  children  fight -^  first 
pretending  they  do  so  for  fun  —  bruise  each 
other,  blind  each  other  with  black  e^'es, 
scratch  till  the  blood  shows,  and  pile  up 
their  lesson  books  in  corners  for  self-defence. 
When  the  dispute  is  loudest,  and  there  ap- 
peareth  no  end,  the  wisest  of  the  children  — 
not  many  to  be  sure  of  them  —  gather  to- 
gether out  of  special  attraction  for  each  other 
—  such  attraction  as  the  witch's  pot  had  for 
the  witch's  pan  in  the  old  story.  They  col- 
lect in  a  corner,  leave  off  quarrelliug,  and 
proceed  to  chatter.  Being  a  few  faculties 
wiser  than  the  rest,  they  agree  shortly  that 
fighting  disables  them  and  others  from  ob- 
taining or  preserving  the  precious  and  unique 
toy.  They  clasp  hands,  and  compliment 
each  other,  then  finish  by  agreeing  as  fol- 
lows :  '  we  will  keep  together,  and  when  the 
others  see  us  nodding  and  whispering,  they 
will  feel  and  acknowledge  how  clever  we 
children  are.'  But  this  did  not  happen,  tlie 
others  made  too  much  noise.  Then  said  the 
biggest  of  the  clever  children,  '  let  us  join 
hands  round  the  rest,  and  enclose  them  in  a 
ring,  and  let  our  wrists  be  broken  before 
they  can  get  out.'  This  succeeded  better  — 
the  other  children  were  taken  by  surprise, 
tired  too  with  blows  and  bruises.  '  Now,' 
said  the  biggest  child,  and  the  others  in  the 
ring  after  him,  '  let  us  put  the  toy  on  the 
table,  with  a  glass  case  over  it,  or  pack  it  up 
in  a  drawer,  then  it  will  be  safe,  cannot  be 
spoiled  or  broken,  and  will  belong  to  all,  not 
to  one  in  particular.'  The  children,  clever 
and  stupid,  all  agreed  to  this,  for,  thought 
each  (none  said  so),  if  once  the  toy  is  on  the 
table,  I  can  smash  the  glass,  when  the  others 
are  asleep  or  stupid,  or  break  the  lock  of  the 
drawer  ;  then  will  the  toy  be  mine.'  But  on 
a  sudden  it  was  remarked,  that  one  child  had 
neither  joined  in  the  ring  of  the  clever  ones, 
nor  mixed  among  the  quarrellers.  Then  the 
biggest  child  turned  to  that  child  —  he  was 
noticeable  not  because  of  his  size,  but  be- 
cause of  his  smallness — he  was  indeed  the 
smallest  of  them  all.  The  biggest  chi  d  said, 
'  pray  don't  stand  there  in  the  corner,  join 
our  ring,  for  youi-  wrists  are  very  strong.' 
The  small  child  had  always  been  noticed  for 
his  skill  in  knocking  down  ninepins,  and  his 
strength  in  batting  at  cricket,  besides  his 
cunningness  in  tricks  with  cards.  '  Oh,  I 
will  come,'  said  he  carelessly,  and  stood 
among  them.  It  was  besides  remarked  that 
he  took  pains  —  the  only  time  he  showed 
any  interest  —  to  assure  them  he  did  not 
20 


care  about  the  toy,  and  would  refuse  it,  were 
it  offeretl  to  him.  He  also  added  coolly,  that 
he  would  not  stand  in  the  shoes  of  the  big- 
gest child,  for  any  reward  or  punishment." 

"  Good  Heavens  !  "  exclaimed  the  prin- 
cess painfully,  impatiently  —  "  spare  me  such 
poor,  such  utter  folly  —  it  is  not  worthy  of 
you  —  drop  that  strain." 

Rodomant  bowed  —  turned  his  eyes  from 
her,  and  towards  the  ground. 

"  I  will  speak  plainly  instead.  This  Por- 
phjTO,  having  generously  and  meekly  conde- 
scended to  bear  a  hand  in  liglitening  the 
burden  of  Direction,  is  pretty  soon  discov- 
ered by  the  rest  of  them  to  be  the  only  child 
of  all,  who  has  power  even  passingly  to  di- 
rect either  the  select  few  managers,  or  the 
mob  of  children  with  which  those  professed 
to  deal.  They  furtively  find  out  their  own 
incompetency,  suddenly  bring  all  ti.oir  weak- 
ness to  bear  upon  him,  and  offer  him  the 
shoes  of  the  biggest  child,  into  which  he,  the 
least  one,  slips.  Now  those  shoes  have  the 
fairy  gift  in  common  with  the  seven-league 
boots,  to  contract  as  well  as  expand.  They 
contract  on  Porphyro  —  surely  it  seems  so, 
princess  ?  Once  in  the  place  he  coveted,  he 
speaks  not,  moves  not,  he  seems  cramped 
from  locomotion  and  free  will.  He  must 
kick  off  the  shoes  that  pinch  him,  or  never 
will  he  really  direct.  He  wants  no  shoeing, 
his  heel  is  iron,  as  his  brain  is  adamant,  en- 
graved by  fate  with  ciphers ;  he  translates 
them  —  predestination,  resolution,  and  as- 
sumption." 

By  this  time  the  princess  had  rallied  her 
reasoning  powers,  as  far  as  they  were  hers, 
—  as  a  woman,  she  turned  the  pa])ers  over 
again,  and  snatched  up  one.  "  You  cannot 
have  read  that  —  you  ought  to  read  those 
words,"  said  she,  "  you  have  read  all  the 
rest,  of  little  consequence  as  regards  his  char- 
acter ;  here  stands  the  cipher  of  his  honor, 
if  you  like  the  term.  See,  he  has  sworn,  yes, 
sworn  never  to  infringe  the  privileges  of 
those  who  have  conferred  on  him  the  privi- 
lege he  prizes  only  —  of  being  trusted  by 
them,  their  confidence  his,  as  he  is  one  among 
them,  while  yet  the  chief;  no  crown  —  no 
sovereignty.     He  swears." 

Rodomant  had  noted  that  fact  most  of  all ; 
it  had  been  the  point  on  which  he  f;istened 
his  misbelief,  his  masked  contempt.  He 
raised  his  head,  and  poured  from  his  eyes  — 
now  void  of  passion,  the  whole  lustre  c'  his 
intelligence  upon  the  princess.  Never  'le- 
fore  had  she  met  it  bare,  or  unveiled  by 
heart-emotion. 

"  Sworn,  and  sworn  falsely,"  he  uttered 
"'  For  it  were  against  his  nature  to  fulfil  the 
vow.  If  he  keeps  the  oath,  he  is  false  to 
himself;  if  he  breaks  it,  false  to  them.  I 
am  glad  to  see,  princess,  that  he  saves  him- 
self by  the  skin  of  his  conscience,  any  how ; 
however,  time  seals  the  result.  I  perceive 
that  Porphyro  himself  did  not  pronoun :» 
the  oath.     Its  words  were  given  out  by  an- 


154 


HUMOR. 


ether,  and  ho.  was  to  assent  in  form.  Sup- 
pose in  thundering,  '  I  swear,'  from  his 
throat  through  the  echoing  space,  he  had 
whispered  to  his  own  ear  only  — '  not ;'  as 
ladies,  I  have  heard,  are  fond  of  doing  at  the 
altar,  when  they  wish  to  slip  the  vow  obe- 
dience. For  the  matter  of  that,  what  man 
fulfils  his  marriage  letter  —  what  woman  ? 
What  human  being  dares  swear,  a  finite 
being,  under  the  vault  of  heaven?  What 
creature  of  smiles  and  tears,  of  passion,  of 
superstition,  and  of  awe,  can  engage  to  keep 
his  word  ?  True  honor  needs  no  oath,  its 
guarantee  is  faith,  more  certain  than  any 
vow,  though  in  the  heart  its  music  is  often 
mute,  and  it  never  writes  promise  on  the 
forehead." 

This  remark  closed  the  conference  — 
whether  in  wrath  or  woe,  indiiferent  or  dis- 
turbed, the  princess  left  him  without  ac- 
knowledgment, as  indeed,  in  one  sense  he 
deserved.  But  his  words  haunted  her  all 
night  like  oracles,  so  strongly  closed  on 
memory  and  thrust  all  other  meanings  out, 
that  though  she  took  care  to  hide  their  sense 
next  day  —  and  many  days  —  in  her  deepest 
heart ;  it  was  certain  to  return  again  —  de- 
sired or  unwelcome. 


CHAPTER    XXVIII. 

A  SLEEPLESS  night  brought  Rodomant  to 
the  important  morning  birth-hour  of  his  in- 
ferior, yet  for  him,  loftier  Direction  ;  he,  too, 
had  his  pride,  but  he  freely  confessed  it. 
At  noon  he  entered  the  theatre,  white  dome 
of  dazzling  daylight,  for  rehearsal  of  his 
new  opera,  before  the  prince  and  members 
of  the  household  guests  —  and  Adelaida. 

The  theatre  was  empty,  vague  lines  of 
white  and  gilding  arched  in  void  tiers 
towards  the  roof — and  the  royal  box  pro- 
jecting on  its  own  special  pillars  from  its 
own  appropriate  and  spreading  arch,  was 
veiled  from  view  by  a  fretted  screen,  laced 
through  and  through  with  myrtle  branches. 
But  Rodomant,  bristling  with  suspicions, 
glanced  behind  him  from  instant  to  instant 
—  during  the  precursory  hubbub  of  an  or- 
chestra which  sounded  like  a  million  hives, 
full  of  bees,  steadfastly  swarming  —  and 
beheld  the  box  door  opened,  and  saw  the 
princess  ushered  into  it  by  Porphyro,  who 
held  the  door  open  with  the  air  of  the  hum- 
blest servant,  and  followed  after  her  with 
the  air  of  the  proudest  master.  The  prin- 
cess in  her  father's  box  !  That  in  itself  was 
a  fact  phenomenal. 

Then  fell  the  evening,  stars  gleamed  above 
the  noon  of  glory,  those  suns  too  far  in 
space  for  recognition  blazed  upon  a  tran- 
sient poor  repute  of  one  recognized  among 
the  multitudes   of   earth.      This    hour  no 


empty  dome,  but  one  built  up  of  living 
faces,  lighted  by  living  glances,  to  the  ceil- 
ing's edge,  and  revealed  by  lamps  of  dia- 
mond-like serenity  M'hich  made  that  plas-  ' 
tered  whiteness  vivid  as  the  eye  of  day. 
Again,  the  princess  in  her  father's  box, 
though  protected  from  him  as  divided  by 
another  presence ;  screened  no  longer,  but 
divinely,  earthly  beautiful  for  all  beholders. 
Her  dress  too — the  mourning  virgin  ami 
sad-colored  sister  of  humanity  —  a  lace  robe 
like  woven  light,  on  satin  like  woven  moon- 
beams—  texture,  fashion,  form,  all  those  ol 
Parisinia.  Large  water  lilies,  fresh  gath- 
ered from  their  cool  recesses,  weighed  down 
her  golden  hair,  and  veiled  her  bosom ;  yet 
she  wore  no  jewels,  only  the  pearls  from  a 
water  deeper  and  cooler  than  the  lilies' 
home  —  great  pearls  clisped  her  wrists,  and 
melted  into  the  pearl-hue  of  her  neck.  No 
diamonds,  though,  on  festal  occasions,  they 
only  were  ordained  the  sign  of  state  for 
such  as  she.  Did  she  desire  to  abase,  and 
give  public  evidence  that  she  abased,  in  his 
sight  and  presence,  the  very  glory  of  the 
regalia  ? 

Opera  and  anthem  over  —  investiture  of 
ribbon,  medal,  star,  and  sword,  succeeding, 
over  too  ;  nothing  less  than  that  at  an  end 
the  after-banquet,  noiseless  and  superb, 
limited  enough  for  him,  in  whose  honor 
those  invited  ate  and  drank,  to  see  clearly 
the  princess  next  her  other  friend — not 
Rodomant,  who  sat  beside  the  prince.  The 
banquet  over,  those  met  had  leave  and 
right  —  unfrequent  loosing  of  the  rigid  cus- 
tom — :  to  do,  gather  together,  or  depart,  as 
each  inclined.  Rodomant,  his  sfenses  by  this 
time  at  once  strained  and  made  more  keen 
by  the  demand  on  them,  would  have  gladly 
retired,  but  for  a  look  from  tlie  princess, 
which,  imploring  far  more  than  it  com- 
manded, took  him  far  more  swiftly  than 
would  command  have  done,  to  her  imme- 
diate presence.  Not  only  hers  —  nor  had 
Rodomant  touched  a  few  i'eet  of  the  ground 
from  him  beside  her  —  Porphyro — before 
he  felt  the  old  attraction  rivet  him  ;  the 
strange  face,  without  beauty  or  comeliness, 
arrests  him  with  interest,  unenforced  but 
felt ;  the  half-closed  eyes,  with  their  glaze 
of  ocean-green,  wog'  like  glance  of  the  male 
siren,  needing  no  charm  of  song  to  bid  the 
seer  listen.  Involuntarily,  Rodomant  bowed, 
and  as  involuntarily,  when  Porphyro  stretched 
forth  his  hand  with  a  friendliness  utterly  un- 
])resumptive,  Rodomant  took  it;  —  ring  and 
all?  No,  he  took  care  amidst  his  fascina- 
tion, to  look  most  eagerly,  and  lo !  no  rii  g 
clasped  any  finger  of  either  pale-bronzed 
hand.  A  thrill  of  warmest  gratitude  shot 
through  his  breast,  precious  as  a  sunbeam 
to  the  frost-starved  earth  ;  none  but  a  lover 
could  have  felt,  or  would  understand  its 
meaning  —  his  exultation.  She,  then,  had 
not  given  him  the  ring.  But,  next  instant, 
as    rapid    an  icy  spasm  checked   his  joy. 


KUMOR. 


155 


WTiat  would  she  now  think  of  his  preten- 
sions to  veracitj  .-'  Absohitely,  for  a  mo- 
ment, the  ircn  influence  of  the  other  griped 
his  memoi'v,  and  held  it  in  a  numbed  sus- 
pense ;  he  could  not  resolutely  believe  that 
he  had  actually  seen  the  riue:. 

But  when  somewhat  recovered,  he  looked 
up,  he  saw  she  was  far  too  happy,  if  excite- 
ment imphes  bliss,  to  notice  or  regret  such  a 
deficiency.  Never  had  she  shown  so  witty, 
so  profound  a  mind,  Avrought  to  vivid  repar- 
tee ;  it  resembled  a  deep  lake,  diamond- 
stirred  by  a  sudden  breeze  ;  and  yet  for  the 
glancing  revelation  at  the  surface  of  those 
treasures  never  fathomed,  her  loveliness 
avenged  itself,  and  earthly  joy  only  lent  her 
more  and  more  unearthly  beauty.  Porphyro 
spoke  in  his  own  pecuhar  short,  but  meaning 
sentences ;  she  replied  at  length,  Rodomant 
constantly  silent,  save  when  especially  ad- 
dressed, stood  by  Porphyro,  and  gazed 
steadfastly  forwards  at  the  room,  lest  the 
aspect  of  her  loveliness  should  lure  his  love 
a  moment  from  its  vigilance,  its  determina- 
tion to  obtain  the  truth  in  this  rare  opportu- 
nity vouchsafed.  So,  fervent  and  yearning 
as  a  mother,  with  the  discernment  and  calm 
of  a  brother,  while,  suspicious  as  a  lover,  he 
watched  Porphyro.  In  the  aspect,  the  man- 
ner, the  expression  of  that  person,  there  was 
nothing  to  blame  or  question ;  adoration, 
blent  witfh  deep  devotion ;  rapture,  chastened 
by  res])ect.  were  the  impression  one  could 
not,  evei  so  fastidious,  deny.  The  voice 
which,  in  us  elevation,  had  a  blasting,  if  not 
brazen  tone,  now  dropped  to  the  softness  of 
velvet-muffled  metal,  stricken.  As  for  her 
face,  while  she  listened,  it  was  veiled  from 
Rodomant  by  his  own  design;  but  her  voice, 
of  temper  rather  golden  than  "  silver,"  as 
cited  by  poets  to  the  being  who  seems  their 
universal  and  common  mistress  —  her  voice 
expressed  full  animated  sympathy,  rather 
than  divine  delight.  Suddenly,  across  viva- 
cious satire,  which  an  Englishwoman  would 
have  "  rung  in"  with  a  sounding  laughter- 
peal,  ])ut  which  she  left  to  its  own  fate  un- 
adorned, there  floated  a  fragrance  in  its  very 
homeliness  mystical,  and  almost  painfully 
exciting,  a  scent  of  Saxon  violets,  or  what 
Rodomant  M'ould  have  called  German  ones, 
••he  very  moss-mixed  perfume  which  glad- 
dens the  wide  fir  forests  in  his  own  bleak, 
glorious  ('ountry.  There  were  in  the  cool 
conser-satory,  and  there  only,  as  he  deemed, 
violet  plants  ;  had  the  princess  been  there, 
veiled  from  vision  by  her  own  projected 
phantom  in  the  spirit,  and  gathered  them  ? 
For  certainly  Rodomant,  who  had  passed 
the  night  preceding  beside  the  fountain,  and 
the  morning  when  he  was  not  elsewhere,  in 
the  rooms  so  near  it,  had  never  seen  her, 
flesh  or  phantom,  enter. 

By  magnetism,  whether  approximate  the 
most  to  animal  or  spiritual,  two  minds  of 
equa.  strength  are  wont  in  each  other's  vicin- 
ity to  detect  a  change  or  shock  of  thought 


in  either.  PorphjTO  suddenly  lifted  his 
voice  ;  it  sounded  metallic  still,  but  no 
longer  mufliled. 

"  Do  you  remember,"  said  he  to  Rodo- 
mant, "  our  meeting  in  Parisinia  ?  I  was  in 
close  quarters  then  !  By  this  time,  I  am 
somewhat  better  off — my  house  at  least 
gives  me  room  to  look  freely  out  of  the  win- 
dows, and  I  have  a  garden." 

"  A  garden,"  replied  Rodomant,  quite 
easily ;  "  I  should  scarcely  think  you  had 
time  for  one,  either  to  enjoy  or  to  cultivate." 

"  It  takes  no  time  to  inhale  enjoyment  as 
one  breathes,  and  my  garden  requires  no 
cultivation.  It  is  a  sort  of  exclusive  para- 
dise for  me,  and  yet  consists  only  of  one 
single  plant." 

"  A  plant  for  which  nature  has  taken  out 
no  patent,  I  suppose  ;  a  unique,  a  monstros- 
ity of  vegetation." 

"  I  thought  it  might  be,  myself — but  was 
agreeably  mistaken  ;  for  though  I  might  not 
have  minded  a  '  unique,'  I  should  have  de- 
cidedly objected  to  a  '  monstrosity '  in  en- 
couragement of  my  mood  and  aspirations 
then.  I  was  walking  on  a  dull  and  dusty 
road,  a  mile  out  of  Parisinia,  when  a  gar- 
dener's cart  passed  me,  filled  with  green 
plants,  balm  and  other  herbs  ;  primrose-roots 
and  such  common  charming  things.  Pres- 
ently, after  it  was  out  of  sight,  I  came  to  a 
dry  brown  stalk  with  stems  and  leaves 
equally  shrivelled,  like  paper  burnt  to  ash; 
this  was  left  by  the  wayside,  and  I  felt  sure 
it  had  been  thrown  away  because  it  was 
thought  to  be  dead.  I  picked  it  up  —  no 
theft  there,  I  believe  ?  " 

The  princess  was  listening,  like  a  child  to 
its  first  fairy-story ;  yet  for  her  this  was  a 
twice-told  tale. 

♦'  I  took  no  care  of  it,  except  to  put  it 
into  a  pot  of  earth  ;  as  one  would  ])ut  a 
frozen  lamb  to  the  fire.  The  pot  stood  in  the 
window  ;  I  never  expected  the  plant  to  flour- 
ish, nor  could  guess  what  family  it  belonged 
to  ;  in  fact  I  believed  it  dead,  yet  would  give 
it  at  least  a  chance.  J  was  myself  at  that 
time  very  anxious  ;  I  was  dead-hearted,  and 
my  s'  irit  had  as  it  were  frozen.  I  had  cares, 
I  w?  i  in  darkness  with  them  ;  thick  darkness 
of  the  mind." 

'♦  The  darkest  —  before  the  dawn,"  mur- 
mured the  ])rincess,  whom  it  seemed  Por- 
phyro's  presence  had  touched  with  simplicity 
I  resembling  matter-of-fact — his  cwn  —  dur- 
ing this  relation.  He  interrupted  /■  .mself  not. 
I  "  Somehow,  that  dark  time,  I  learned  to 
!  associate  my  destiny  with  the  fate  of  the 
dead-seeming  weed.  I  used  to  say,  '  I  am 
flung  by  men  out  of  their  experience,  and 
judges  no  longer  accept  me  as  worthy  of  the 
lowest  test ;  were  I  a  vile  nonentity,  neither 
human  nor  animal,  I  could  not  be  more  ob- 
viously disdained,  more  mutely  cursed.'  Let 
me  watch  whether  this  brown  rag  of  vegeta- 
1  tion  has  any  life  left,  any  soul,  any  fate  — 
1  there  should  be  fate  in  flowers." 


156 


HUMOR. 


"  Certainly,  as  likely  as  in  stars,"  mut- 
tered Rodomant,  captiously  ;  and  Porphyro 
gave  him  a  glance,  as  unlike  that  which  he 
sideways  turned  to  the  princess,  as  light  on 
granite  differs  from  the  sheen  of  emerald.  A 
hard  and  defiant  inexpression.  Men's  eyes 
ever  dropped  under  it,  as  they  always  fol- 
lowed—  fixed  by —  the  glassy-emerald  stare; 
even  Rodomant  was  repelled  and  cowed. 
The  man  had  both  ends  of  the  magnet  in  his 
dual  nature. 

"  I  determined  I  would  leave  it  to  its 
fate,"  resumed  Porphyro,  "as  I  had  flung 
myself  into  the  tide,  or  counter-tide,  of 
mine.  I  never  watered  it ;  I  never  turned 
it  to  the  sun,  nor  gave  it  air,  nor  stirred  the 
earth  about  its  root  —  if  one  it  had.  Its 
leaves,  without  air,  sun,  or  water,  raised  and 
uncurled  themselves,  grew  green,  were 
shaped  into  the  form  and  type  commonest 
amidst  mere  leaves  ;  yet  whose  shadow  pro- 
tects a  blossom  the  sweetest  of  the  field,  and 
of  the  garden,  which,  were  it  as  difficult  to 
cultivate,  would  be  prized  as  highly  as  the 
rose.  But  would  this  blossom  so' yield  the 
secret  of  its  value  ?  I  knew  not,  for  I  had 
made  up  my  mind  not  to  help  it,  though, 
certainly,  little  black  knots  crept  here  and 
there  under  the  green.  One  morning,  cares 
at  their  thorniest  were  blunted  and  dis- 
persed, thick  darkness  turned  suddenly  to 
day  —  I  found  my  Destiny  in  my  own  hands. 
Weary,  bui  at  rest,  in  confidence,  I  returned 
to  my  home  ;  as  1  entered,  I  perceived  a  de- 
lectable fragrance ;  as  I  advanced,  I  saw  one 
of  Nature's  triumphs,  which,  from  repetition, 
never  weary.  In  my  window  the  plant  had 
flowered  ;  it  was  a  nosegay  of  finest  violets, 
their  purple  worthy  of  their  perfume.  Sud- 
den as  Aaron's  rod  they  had  blossomed  into 
being  —  so  had  my  Fate  in  my  own  hand." 

And  with  these  words  Porphyro  fell  a  few 
paces  backwards,  as  if  to  exhibit  the  prin- 
cess. Repugnantly,  therefore,  yet  out  of 
necessity,  far  more  imperious  than  will  on 
his  part,  Rodomant  looked  past  him  and  re- 
garded her.  The  direction  of  her  drooping 
eyes  told  him  where  to  look  —  they  were 
fixed  upon  the  lily  in  her  bosom.  In  its  in- 
tensely pure  white  cup,  lay,  rather  shown 
than  concealed  by  the  petals  bending  from 
the  centre,  a  little  leafless  violet  bunch  —  a 
fairy  world  of  sweetness,  and  purple  as  im- 
perial night ;  purple,  deemed  Rodomant,  as 
the  director's  unfulfilled  imperial  dream. 
Or  was  it  0^7  the  result,  this  fancy,  of  his 
fanatical  habi:  and  pleasure  to  trace  and 
hunt  analogies  ^     Perhaps  so. 

And  Rodomant,  for  that  moment  fasci- 
nated beyond  caution,  though  doubly  vigi- 
lant, watched  the  princess,  who  at  that  instant 
noticed  not  him  nor  any.  He  saw  that  her 
eyes,  still  downcast,  suddenly  fixed  them- 
selves on  the  cross  terminating  the  rosary 
of  huge  pearls  round  her  throat  —  a  cross 
composed  of  pearls  so  large  that  seven  of 
them  formed  the  sigil  Catholic,  six  inches 


long.  And  the  last  pearl  of  the  base  —  add- 
ing of  course  the  weight  of  the  rest  there- 
unto, touched,  as  she  bent  her  neck,  the 
heads  of  the  lily-cradled  violets.  He  saw 
then  that  with  a  singular,  tender  care,  she 
unclasped  the  cross  from  the  string,  lest  it 
should  crush  the  flowers,  and  handed  it  to 
the  ladies  nearest. 

Then  Rodomant,  vigilant  in  the  very  crisis 
and  intensity  of  his  own  passion,  chafed  to 
torment  —  looked  away  from  the  princess  to 
Porphyro  —  for  he  wished  to  ascertain  whether 
he  too  had  detected  the  token  of  virgin  in- 
terest. And  Rodomant's  own  face  glowed 
with  a  sudden  and  virgin-like  shame.  Not 
at  her  gesture,  so  sweet,  .so  chaste,  so  in- 
voluntary, and  yet  tender  ;  but  at  Porphyro's 
expression,  as  he  view^ed  it  too,  the  furtive 
flame-like  glow  that  crossed  rather  than 
filled  his  eyes  —  a  basilisk-like  glance  blend- 
ing gold  and  green  —  not  sly,  but  clouded 
and  filmed  over,  as  it  were,  by  the  mist  ex- 
haled from  ])assion,  which  the  spirit  had  not 
love  and  light  enough  to  pierce  and  scatter 
with  "  healing  wings,"  those  beams  of  heav- 
enly morning.  Yet  neither  was  it  this  look 
that  angered  Rodomant,  but  the  change  in 
Porphyro's  countenance,  when  the  princes.s 
met  it  next ;  then  the  sultry  lustre  went  out, 
or  rather  in  —  the  old  gloomy  impression 
rolled  back  and  smothered  it  —  and  Rodo- 
mant felt  sure  the  passion,  as  well  as  the 
manner,  was  too  much  under  command  to 
be  as  generous  as  it  was  genuine.  Perhaps 
Porphyro  detected  Rodomant's  dissalisiac- 
tion  by  his  infallible  gauge  for  motives  — 
certainly  he  had  not  seemed  to  see  it.  But 
Rodomant  was  astonished  to  find  himself 
again  so  soon  addressed. 

"  I  was  very  happy,"  said  the  director, 
"  that  his  highness's  invitation  reached  me 
at  a  time  when  I  had  just  enough  leisure  to 
dare  to  ftccept  it.  I  had  heard  so  much  of 
you  —  I  was  not  wrong,  after  all,  in  desiring 
you  to  leave  us.  You  too  have  reaped  your 
wishes,  a  harvest  of  honors,  not  one  single 
ear  shorn  from  the  sheaf,  nor  wanting,"  and 
he  sighed. 

Porphyro  sighed,  no  love  sigh,  not  subtle 
and  soft  enough  —  rather  the  short  and 
eager  gasp  of  the  race-horse,  as  it  nears  the 
goal,  and  feels  as  if  flying  /ro?H  it  by  lapid 
and  violent  reaction  of  sensation  —  the  goal 
it  may  yet  fly  short  of.  The  incurable  Rod- 
omant instant  coupled  with  that  sigh  the 
idea,  "  one  want  then  is  shorn  from  yours, 
or  unfulfilled." 

So,  in  one  of  his  quaint  asides,  he  mut- 
tered, "  If  the  reaper  leaves  the  richest  ears 
on  the  field  for  the  gleaner,  what  then  ?  it  is 
the  reaper's  fault  that  from  his  bundle  the 
most  golden  rays  are  shorn."  But  the  ac- 
cent was  too  meaning,  as  well  as  the  articu- 
lation too  prolonged,  to  escape  the  urincess's 
attention.  The  remark,  besides,  concerned 
Porphyro ;  she  arched  her  bending  throat 
suddenly;  loftily  as  a  swan  disturbed,  ami 


RUMOR. 


157 


flung  at  Rodomant  one  of  her  imperial 
glances,  which,  however,  failed  to  touch  him 
like  the  yearning  mother-grief  she  had  lav- 
ished on  her  prison-martyrs.  And  the  sharp 
reHection  which  his  discernment  pressed  on 
him,  pressed  back  his  pride  besides,  and  made 
his  heart  sv.ell  full  and  great  with  pity,  still 
passionate  pity  ;  for  all  his  sense  Avas  pas- 
sion, as  all  his  soul  was  love.  That  grief  over- 
flowing the  heart  moistened  the  eyes  with 
sudden  dew  ;  he  regarded  her  with  those  eyes 
an  instant,  as  though  they  two  alone  stood  to- 
gether at  the  edge  of  time  with  earth  behind 
them.  Porphyro  therefore  marked,  un- 
marked, the  change  in  both  the  faces.  But, 
after  that  review,  looked  straight  up  into  the 
color-cells  of  the  splendid  ceiling  ;  superb  in 
his  owr  granite  calm.  For  PorphjTo  had  a 
thought,  and  in  what  terms  soever  he  ex- 
pressed his  feelings,  his  thoughts  he  never 
revealed  as  they  rose  in  him,  and  scarcely 
ever,  except  through  his  actions,  in  the  end. 
Even  Rodomant  suspected  not  he  had  been 
watched,  believed  that  Porphyro,  tired  of 
the  hour  which  ministered  not  to  his  secret, 
had  dropped  into  his  favorite  pastime,  a 
purple  study.  And  he  believed  so  still,  even 
through  the  interest  implied  for  himself  in 
the  next  remarks. 

"  I  admire  your  new  opera  more  than  any 
I  ever  heard.  It  is  also  the  first  to  which  I 
could  bind  myself  to  attend  with  equal 
pleasure  and  profit  to  those  which  are  af- 
forded by  a  spoken  drama.  It  is  the  first 
tizne  singing  ever  charmed  me  as  much  as 
acting  proper.  The  character  of  the  faithful 
wife  is  indeed  a  thought,  of  conception  too 
ideal  for  genuine  life,  but  with  art  it  justly 
assimilates,  exactly  where  it  differs  from  na- 
ture —  But  does  your  highness  honestly 
think  yourself  that  Fiel  would  have  refused, 
not  the  solicitations,  —  those  of  course  she 
would  have  rejected  —  but  all  sympathy 
with  the  regrets  of  her  old  lover  ;  and  that 
when  her  husband,  her  second  lover,  whom  in- 
deed she  had  been  obliged  to  teach  herself 
to  love,  was  safe  in  prison,  quite  out  of  the 
way,  and  disabled  from  knowledge  of  what 
his  wife  was  doing — would  she  have  refused 
to  feel  pain  for  herself,  in  denying  him  that 
last  request,  a  last  embrace  ?  " 

But  the  princess  was  covered  with  confu- 
si  jn  —  nay  with  blushes  the  deepest  that 
had  ever  dyed  her  face  ;  and  her  eyes  fell 
lower,  lower,  while  her  neck  arched  more 
and  more,  She  could  not  answer  ;  —  for  the 
character  of  Fiel,  the  heroine,  was  taken 
from  herself,  and  she  knew  it,  though  Rodo- 
mant had  never  hinted  so,  nor  any  other 
person  guessed  —  not  Porphyro,  or  he  would 
have  never  tampered  Avith  the  theme.  It 
was  a  spiritual  resemblance  in  a  mental  por- 
trait, such  as  a  keen  soul  alone  could  have 
achieved,  and  the  original  knew  it  without 
acknowledging  it  —  because  she  felt  it  —  it 
faced  her,  soul  to  imaged  soul. 

"  I  think  vou  should  ask   7ne,"  observed 


Rodomant,  with  a  dignity  none  would  have 
dreamed  of  his  possessing,  —  he  learned 
himself  but  for  the  occasion  —  Braced  by  it 
and  consciously  exalted,  he  looked  a  head 
taller  than  Porphyro,  yet  was  but  exactly 
i  the  same  height  as  he  —  "I  supplied  the  in- 
■  cidents,  even  the  details  of  the  story.  I 
i  have  also  a  turn  that  way.  It  is  a  fiction, 
no  historic  tragcdv,  nor  home-bred  comedy. 
The  faithful  wife,  the  type  of  Faith  —  all 
types  should  be  portrayed  as  feminine  — 
would  cease  to  be  faithful,  if  for  a  second 
her  heart  swerved.  If  her  heart  were  faith- 
ful it  had  not  mattered  (save  for  the  good 
taste  of  a  woman)  whether  her  lips  touched 
alien  clay,  or  not.  Some  women  would 
have  tried  that  trick  to  save  their  husbanda 

—  as  a  chance,  I  mean  ;  for  recollect  her 
husband  was  in  the  power  (and  in  one  of 
the  prisons)  of  the  prince,  her  old  peasant- 
lover.  But  she  is  Faith,  this  wife,  therefore 
she  kee]3s  her  vows  to  Heaven  as  though  still 
in  the  sight  of  man,  and  in  the  sight  of  man 
as  before  Heaven  ;  for  the  same  reason,  she 
reiterates  her  vow  of  constancy  to  her  hus- 
band when  he  is  torn  from  her." 

"  But,"  urged  Porphyro,  "  Heaven  seeing 
the  heart,  how  could  slie  keep,  as  narrated, 
the  heart's  vows  to  her  husband  pure  ?  when 
the  old  love,  the  prince  who  had  disguised 
himself  as  a  peasant  in  those  old  days,  that 
he  might  prove  her  disinterested  and  free  ; 
■when  he  asked  for  one,  and  that  to  be  the 
Inst  embrace  ?  For  she  must,  in  nature  — 
whatever  for  conveniency  the  plot  contains 

—  she  vinst  have  loved  her  old  love  still ; 
he  was  her  first  passion,  and  her  maiden 
choice  ;  the  husband  was  the  master  of  her 
aff'ecfion,  and  her  love's  counsellor  —  love 
which  (even  if  not  a  counterfeit)  was  but  the 
cold  shadow  of  the  primal  passion." 

"  Not  so,"  answered  Rodomant,  with 
flashing  eyes.  "  The  peasant,  prince,  or  — 
never  mind  his  name  —  only  call  him  not 
lover  in  whom  selfish  passion  has  smothered 
the  innocency  of  love's  intent ;  he  thought 
himself  still'  beloved  because  the  stifling 
fog,  M'hich  wrapped  his  own  heart,  excluded 
him  from  the  contemplation  —  from  the  per- 
cejition  —  of  the  intense  and  heavenly  altar- 
flame  lit  up  within  her  heart  by  love,  or  of 
the  angel  ever  hovering  there  to  feed  it  — 
Faith.  Faith  is  as  incomprehensible,  nay, 
as  false  an  abstraction  to  the  libertine,  as 
chastity  ;  both  are  words  which  represent  to 
him  no  idea.  To  him,  faith  is  a  dead  letter, 
as  chastity  is  cold.  In  feet,  that  is  because 
he,  never  having  been  faithful,  neither  de- 
serves nor  will  attract  faith  ;  just  as  to  him 
chaste  passion  has  a  clasp  of  ice.  For  chas- 
tity is  the  allegiance  of  passion  ;  exclusive, 
concentrated  —  contains  all  the  celestial 
warmth  human  yearning  can  woo  from 
heaven  ;  fire  which  shall  consume  not  with 
clay,  but  return  with  the  spirit  to  heaven. 
In  a  sentence.  Faith  is  devotion  of  the  spirit., 
as   Chastity   is    devotion   of    the    passions. 


158 


RUMOR. 


Human  love  and  heavenly  are  not  so  far 
apart ;  for  the  love  of  man  and  woman  (too 
be  pure)  must  be  as  single  as  love  to  God  — 
for  each  other." 

"  Your  purism  will  lose  you  your  fame,  so 
dearly  and  lately  bought,  unless  age  and  ex- 
perience sliall  divert  you  from  the  fixed  idea 
impenetrable,  which  so  many  minds  have 
split  at,  gone,  as  it  were,  asunder  in  the 
darkness.  In  this  great  age,  when  every 
movement  must  be  onwards  if  the  mover 
wishes  to  keep  his  advantage  ;  when  individ- 
uals march,  as  armies  used,  against  error  and 
corruption :  and,  mixing  in  the  mass,  they 
who  rejnne  too  much,  or  pause  for  insane 
speculations  of  no  avail  to  man,  will  be 
swept  out  of  the  path  of  recognition ;  nay, 
crushed  into  oblivion's  dust." 

"  Stay,  I  am  astonished,"  said  the  princess, 
smiling  maiden-sweet  at  Porphyro.  "  I  am 
surprised  to  hear  you  make  occasion  for  a 
squabble  with  one  you  admire  ;  indeed  I  am 
shocked.  You  must  make  your  peace  with 
Herr  Rodomant,  who  is  so  great  a  friend  of 
mine,  that  I  cannot  forget  he  was  first  pre- 
sented to  my  appreciation  as  a  friend  of 
yours." 

"  No  squabble,"  said  Porph\TO  with  dex- 
terous deference,  "  but  a  tail  of  an  argument ; 
we  let  the  argument  slip  us,  and  only  re- 
tained the  end.  I  really  have  one  more 
critical  remark,  if  I  may  venture  so  to  call 
it,  to  insinuate." 

To  Rodomant,  —  "  Did  you  really  mean 
to  imply,  Avhat  is  not  expressed  but  ob- 
scurely hinted,  that  the  faith  of  the  wife  to 
her  husband  secretly  remained  intact,  as 
well  as  her  conduct?  —  that  she  absolutely 
retained  no  emotion  in  favor  of  her  former 
suitor  ?  I  thought  a  wife's  triumph  was  to 
resist  temptation,  which  is  not  temptation, 
unless /(.'^^  to  tempt." 

"  Why  do  we  pray /rora  temptation  to  be 
led,  and  believe,  as  we  are  told,  prayer 
offered  up  in  faith  is  answered  ?  Things 
and  persons  tempting,  formed  to  tempt  — 
are  abundant  in  the  world  ;  they  cease  not 
out  of  it  any  more  than  the  poor.  Then  it 
must  be  that  they  who  are  futhful  in  pray- 
ing, as  they  are  heart-whole  in  love  to  God, 
are  powerless  to  be  affected  by  temptation 
—  rendered  so  by  love  and  faith.  So  with 
the  wife  towards  him  who  is  next,  for  her  to 
God.  It  was  indeed  no  trial  to  Fiel  to  re- 
fuse the  request  of  her  old  lover  —  she  no 
longer  loved  nor  beHeved  in  him  —  she  dis- 
honored him  indeed.  It  was  certainly  a  tri- 
umph, yet  rather  a  triumph  of  honor  than 
of  love  —  love  is  its  own  crown,  or  rather 
needs  none;  she,  faithful  to  her  womanhood, 
as  in  her  wifehood,  could  no  more  honor 
than  love  a  man  who  had  deceived  her. 
Fiel  quite  as  much  repudiated  the  prince, 
because  on  their  first  acquaintance  he  had 
recourse  to  deception  —  in  order  to  prove 
whether  her  liking  and  regard  were  for 
nimsolf  alone,  or   for   the   rank  which   in- 


vested him  besides  —  as  because  she  had 
discovered  the  hoUowness  of  his  character, 
its  artifice,  and  the  narrow  coldness  of  his 
heart." 

"  Assertion  is  not  argument,"  observed 
Porphyro  tritely.  "  I  am  not  prepared  to 
assert,  even  when  I  am  certain  ;  I  preler  to 
prove.  But  you  and  I  have  both  forgotten 
in  whose  presence  we  have  discussed  so 
openly.  Her  highness  must  be  more  than 
tired  of  the  subject,  and  of  us.  Shall  we 
therefore  both  retire  ?  " 

The  princess,  less  calm  than  he,  was  vis- 
ibly amazed  at  having  attention  drawn  to 
her ;  also  she  was  evidently  at  that  instant 
in  the  frame  very  frequent  with  women  pos- 
sessed as  she  ;  she  looked  here  and  there, 
at  last  fixed  her  eyes  on  Rodomant,  with  a 
distressful  kind  of  gaze,  as  of  one  longing 
to  avoid  all  scrutiny  —  but  that  of  the  faith- 
ful friend.  That  glance  always  tested  Rodo- 
mant's  devotion,  for  it  always  called  it  forth, 
instead  of  the  excitability,  named  enthusi- 
asm falsely,  which  weak-charactered  men 
claim  in  extenuation  of  their  irrepressible 
interest  —  interest  they  have  no  right  to 
show.  Through  the  rose-shadow  of  her 
still  warm  blushes,  he,  with  his  eye  so  vigi- 
lant, could  detect  her  insufferable  weariness  ; 
and  detect  its  cause  without  complaint  or 
murmur  to  his  own  heart  —  weariness  of 
liini,  and  longing  to  be  left  alone  with  Por- 
phyro. Rodomant  ever  detested  demon- 
stration in  presence  of  a  third  person  ;  he 
sometime  eschewed  his  lesson,  newly  learned 
of  etiquette  —  so  on  this  occasion.  He 
watched  his  opportunity — soon  given  —  for 
the  princess  —  as  women,  obviously  inter- 
ested in  a  lover  who  has  acted  but  not  yet 
spoken,  ever  will  —  was  fighting  out  her  self- 
resistance  to  the  last ;  and  after  her  openly 
evinced  confusion,  interest,  her  burning 
blushes,  not  yet  faded,  betook  herself  to  a 
rallying  and  mild  disdainful  mood,  touching 
every  matter  which  was  rife  among  the  wise 
and  foolish  at  that  hour  —  saving  only  the 
theme  just  touched  and  left  by  her  twa  rival 
knights. 

Rodomant,  without  rustle  or  spoken  Avord, 
retired  behind  them  both  —  no  slight  worry 
for  one  who  detested  general  company  as 
he  ;  for  he  had  to  pass  through  a  calm  and 
noiseless  crowd,  each  individual  of  which 
seemed  gifted  with  eyes  behind,  before,  all 
over  ;  albeit,  it  made  a  show  as  serene  and 
splendid  as  an  Oriental  flower-garden  by 
moonlight.  There  was  not  one  person  with 
whom  he  could  have  exchanged  salute, 
though  treated  in  positive  familiar  by  the 
master  of  them  all  —  for  Rosuelo  only  en- 
tered the  palace  on  rare  occasions,  these 
never  secular  ones. 

Midway  in  the  immense  room  had  stood 
the  princess  with  Porphyro,  withdrawn  from 
the  doors  and  from  her  father's  place  at 
equal  distance.  Rodomant,  without  peril, 
except  to  his  sensitive  pride,   attained  tne 


HUMOR. 


159 


near  neighborhood  of  the  doors,  and  there, 
on  one  hand,  beheld  a  group  of  persons  too 
preoccupied  with  themselves,  or  with  each 
other,  to  observe  him.  As  he  passed  close 
by  them,  he  heard  them,  to  his  amaze, 
chattering  peacefully  in  Parisinian,  a  tongue 
more  rarely  used  in  Belvidere  than  in  any 
modern  court,  and  which  those  used  evi- 
dently too  much  at  their  ease  to  have  adopt- 
ed—  it  was  their  own.  What  could  such 
sign  portend  ?  A  few  feet  farther  —  those 
feet  embracing  the  only  void  space  in  the 
room,  and  quite  close  to  the  gold-wrought 
velvet  draperies  of  the  doors,  thrown  wide 
behind  them  ;  he  caught  sight  of  a  counte- 
nance he  was  certain  to  have  seen  before. 
Impossible,  for  he  Icnew  it  not,  yet  must 
have  dreamed  of  it,  for  it  dawned  clearly  on 
his  memory,  as  forgotten  dreams  are  wont, 
in  certain  moods,  most  vividly  to  do.  It 
was  a  regular  and  brilliant  face  ;  its  im])res- 
sion  that  of  contemplative  enthusiasm, 
which,  obviously  withdrawn  in  spirit  from 
those  about  it,  yet  contained  not  the  mys- 
terious indrawn  expression  of  the  poet, 
musician,  or  mystic  proper.  Rather  it 
seemed  bent  fixed  upon  a  vision  suspended 
before  its  eyes,  between  them  and  other 
countenances,  which  vision  it  serenely  stud- 
ied. Perhaps  at  the  moment  Rodomant 
passed  him  he  had  ended  his  contemplation ; 
perhaps  Rodomant's  form  intercepted  the 
vision  more  decidedly  than  the  rest  of  those 
moving  or  moveless  around  ;  at  all  events, 
as  Rodomant  passed  the  other  started  back, 
and  in  a  moment  the  instinct,  Avhich,  Hke  a 
fine  and  viewless  chain,  is  only  felt  when 
along  it  quivers  the  delicate  electric  force, 
the  artist  instinct  woke,  in  each,  for  each. 
Even  then  Rodomant  knew  not  his  brother's 
name  ;  only  knew  he  met  an  artist,  and  also 
that  he  had  met  him  in  the  flesh  before. 
And  the  remembered  stranger-brother 
brought  his  bright  eyes  to  bear  on  Rodo- 
mant; while  a  smile  as  bright,  gave  the 
assurance  so  genial  to  the  sensitive,  that  his 
face  was  also  recollected.  No  vanity  min- 
gled with  the  pleasure,  though  perhaps  some 
pride,  when  the  unknown  bowed  profoundly, 
gracefully,  and  said  in  a  charming  voice  — 

"  This  is  one  of  the  most  delightful  mo- 
ments of  my  life  ;  I  thank  you.  In  your 
present  cir<iumstancps,  I  never  should  have 
anticipated  you  would  have  quitted  your  late 
companions,  to  identify  me  ;  I  see  they  can- 
not spoil  you  ;  if  so,  none  can  on  earth." 

"  Wh)-,  I  might  say  the  same  thing,  which 
would  be  to  return  no  compliment.  But  in 
this  place,  of  all  places,  it  is  most  natural 
to  recognize  a  —  friend,  may  I  say?  I  yet 
scarcely  claim  that  right,  for  though  I  now 
clearly  recall  where  I  saw  you,  and  how,  and 
that  you  did  me  the  honest  kindness  to 
invite  me  in  those  unmarked  days  of  mine, 
to  your  own  house,  yet  I  cannot  remember 
your  name." 


"  Scarcely  strange,  for  the  mob  did  ma 
the  honor  to  pervert  my  baptismal  badge  — 
which  had  been  conferred  on  me  with  inten- 
tion too  sublime  for  the  occasion  —  into  one 
rather  too  ridiculous.  I  am  therefore  Rufus,  1 
or  Raphael  Romana,  as  you  will."  ' 

"But  you  did  not  mind  that,  when  last  and 
first  I  saw  you.  You  were,  on  the  contrary, 
proud  of  it ;  I  recollect  that.  You  said  it 
showed  you  had  character  and  principle  as 
an  artist,  that  you  had  founded  a.  fact.  The 
title  seemed  as  dear  to  you  as  that  of  Van- 
dyke brown  must  be  to  the  oblong-square 
imp  of  that  name  in  your  color-box."  Ro- 
mana  sighed  in  the  involuntary  unchecked 
manner  which  betrays  that  sighs  are  fre- 
quent, having  become  an  unnoticed  and  in- 
dulged-in  habit ;  also  he  smiled  mechani- 
cally, as  though  the  allusion  touched  no 
interest  of  his  own,  or  an  interest  grown 
wearisome,  without  fruition. 

Rodomant,  elate  in  that  new  dignity  of 
his,  whose  agreeable  assumption  softened 
the  asperity  from  his  address,  instantly  be- 
thought himself  that  Romana,  a  stranger 
there  until  that  time,  might  possibly  be  glad 
to  accept  him  as  a  companion,  perhaps  as 
an  interpreter ;  he  was  competent  for  that 
now. 

"  May  I  ask,"  he  said,  "  at  what  inn  you 
put  uj)  here  ?  I  never  was  in  one  of  them  ; 
but  I  have  heard  that  they  are  infested  by  a 
race  of  vagabonds  and  thieves  who  enforce 
toll  from  all  strangers,  in  the  robbery  of 
that  precious  thing,  one's  night  rest.  In 
this  climate,  such  rest  is  needed  doubly, 
save  by  those  inured  —  as  I." 

"  I  am  not  likely  to  suffer  so  ;  I  came  in 
the  retinue  of  the  director ;  at  least,  he 
brought  me  with  liim  for  purposes  which  are 
to  benefit  me  ;  and  he  does  not  conceal  will 
do  him  service  also." 

"  You  came  with  Porphvro  ?  Astonish- 
ing '  You  ?  Why  I  should  have  fancied 
nothing  but  a  convulsion  of  nature,  which 
had  cast  the  cultured  rock  of  Britain  into  tlie 
Mediterranean  bosom,  would  have  displaced 
you  from  it,  save  ns  a  voluntary  art-tourist. 
You  looked  and  seemed  as  if  founded  there, 
a  statue  of  ambition's  apotheosis,  crowned 
with  golden  laurel." 

'*  No  such  thing,  for  there  is  no  such 
statue — apotheosis  or  archetype.  Yet  I 
came  voluntarily ;  it  was  my  pleasure  even 
in  being  his.  He  is  a  true  patron,  in  deed, 
not  vamping  words  ;  he  neither  grudges  what 
is  needful,  nor  pampers  with  the  superflu- 
ous ;  he  finds  and  oflers  opportunity,  which 
is  all  a  proud  man  ought,  or  an  artist  is  ever 
willing  to  accept.  Well,  I  was  waiting  here 
for  his  commands  ;  I  do  not  mind  acknowl- 
edging Ms.  He  announced  to  me  his  inten- 
tion of  retiring  very  early,  or  rather  of  re- 
maining only  half  an  hour.  I  su])pose  he  ia 
jealous  of  his  'Vecdom,  as  he  cares  not  to 
confess  his  chains." 


160 


RUMOR. 


This  allusion  was  one  which  Rodomant 
chose  not  to  identify  in  neighborhood  — 
even  not  near — of  other  men. 

"  Are  you  bound  to  retire  when  he  does, 
then,  or  obliged  to  remain  as  long  as  he  may 
choose  ?  " 

"  Not  at  all ;  I  stay  for  my  own  pleasure. 
I  have  been  studying  and  pre-producing  my 
subject." 

Rod om ant's  curiosity  stirred,  but  he  would 
not  give  it  wing. 

"  Aiid  do  you  live  with  him  —  I  mean,  is 
your  apartment  near  his  ?  " 

"  I  neither  know  nor  care.  I  was  out  all 
the  morning  botanizing  —  what  a  flora  !  she 
is  indeed  a  goddess  !  When  I  returned,  it 
was  time  to  dress.  I  had  a  room  of  por- 
phyry illustrations,  fit  for  Porphyro  himself, 
that  had  a  bath  in  it,  but  no  bed ;  therefore 
I  have  no  idea  where  I  shall  sleep,  but  I 
rather  fancy  out  of  doors,  which  I  should 
prefer.  Literally.  I  suppose  some  place  is 
provided  for  us  to  sleep  in,  coming  as  we  do 
with  him." 

"  Us  !  then  you  are  not  the  only  one  ?  " 

"  I  told  you  I  came  in  his  retinue,  and  so 
I  did  ;  for  if  he  treats  his  servants  as  his 
friends,  it  is  also  true  he  makes  his  friends 
his  servants  without  trying ;  and  he  must  be 
a  rare  ])ersonage,  for  that  species  of  servi- 
tude burdens  not  as  such." 

"  You  like  him  then  ?  " 

"  Like  him —  I  rather  adore  him,  or  my 
reverence  is  next  to  adoration." 

Rodomant  felt  a  violent  impulse  to  laugh, 
with  whose  sudden  and  nervous  repression 
his  spine  quivered.  He  would  have  given 
much  for  an  empty  room  to  laugh  in,  out  of 
hearing,  for  neither  in  Belvidere  nor  Italy  do 
men  laugh  ;  in  the  former  region  there  stirs 
too  satirical  a  sense  of  humor,  in  the  latter, 
too  sensitive  a  vein  of  tragedy  throbs  in 
every  bosom.  But  if  there  be  any  German 
blood  or  breeding,  it  will  out  in  "comedy's 
best  crow.  Yet  Rodomant  laughed  not  — 
perhaps  hflped  by  his  own  experience  of 
what  adoration  meant  with  different  men 
and  minds,  and  by  the  conviction  that  it 
may  possibly  not  be  more  ludicrous  to  adore 
a  man-hero  than  an  angel-woman. 

''  If  you  are  not  engaged  then,  and  have 
finished  framing  with  the  gilt  arabesques  of 
your  fancy  the  golden  pictures  of  your  im- 
agination, may  I  hope  for  your  society  my- 
self? My  rooms  are  beautiful  and  quiet  — 
too  good  for  me  —  and  I  have  the  right  of 
master  absolutely,  so  far  as  that  I  maj»^  ex- 
ercise hospitality  whenever  I  choose.  I  have 
never  done  so  yet,  for  the  only  i)erson  in 
whose  society  I  found  satisfaction  will 
neither  he  good  companv,  nor  taste  wine  — 
nor  coffee,  which  is  my  kind  of  wine  ;  it  was 
against  his  profession  also  to  sit  in  a  pretty 
room.  And  mine  are,  as  I  said,  beautiful  — 
that  is  the  word  —  there  are  no  pretty  things 
nor  j)re«j/  women  in  Belvidere,  that  word  is 


Parisinian  ware,  the  patent  mark.  So,  will 
you  come  straight  with  me,  and  sup  —  1 
dare  say  you  have  tasted  little  more  than  I. 
And  I,  I  myself,  should  be  more  grateful 
than  you  can  imagine."  This  was  true,  Ro- 
domant's  sense  ached  with  longing  to  be  far 
from  the  princess,  Avhom  so  near  he  might 
not  see  —  whom  to  watch  further  was  against 
honor,  yet  whose  possible  proceedings  cleared 
his  heart  of  every  other  interest  —  if  not  his 
mind. 

"  It  will  give  me  the  greatest  pleasure," 
said  Romana,  "  and  I  think  you  unlike  all 
the  world  —  prosperity  has  not  rubbed  you 
the  wrong  way,  if  you  can  understand  what 
I  mean.  Instead  of  smoothing  most  persons' 
bad  qualities  away  or  out  of  sight,  it  makes 
them  bristle."  So  Rodomant  went  before 
him  —  measuredly  and  lingering  by  the  way, 
for  he  was  prouder  of  showing  the  still 
splendors  of  the  palace  which  should  one 
day  be  Her  home  of  empire  —  also  jirouder 
of  entertaining  a  great  painter  himself — 
than  he  was  of  being  a  familiar  and  inhabi- 
tant of  the  palace,  and  possessing  over  those 
rooms  the  temporary  right  of  ownershij). 

Romana's  eye  was  ravished.  "  Every 
corner  contains  a  picture,  and  the  place  is 
ruled  by  art.  What  colors,  and  what  collo- 
cation of  design  —  fluent  as  fency,  stately  as 
thought.  Tints  deride  our  skill  —  which 
have  lasted  so  long  that  they  must  have 
faded,  if  not  died,  had  not  their  production 
been  fruit  of  some  natural  arcana,  uncon- 
served,  the  wizard  cast  the  spell  into  the 
sea." 

And  he  walked  up  and  down,  once  shut 
in  with  Rodomant  —  peering  closely  at 
cause,  then  standing  afar  off  to  judge  effect, 
still  raving  in  the  painter's  mania,  sanest, 
certainly,  of  all  the  forms  of  art's  sweet  mad- 
ness. And  all  the  time  Rodomant,  oblivious 
of  art  as  one  could  not  have  conceived  him, 
was  busy  preparing  an  extraordinary  refec- 
tion —  the  servant  and  page  allotted  to  him, 
who  usually  dreamed  out  as  sinecure  their 
office,  were  sent  in  the  direction  of  the 
kitchens,  things  existent  and  real  as  they 
were  out  of  sight,  smell,  hearing  —  indetect- 
ible  to  sense.  Now  Romana  had  the  habit 
of  carrying  out  his  thoughts,  and  carrying 
on  their  ex])ression  in  sympathetic  company, 
whatever  else  Mas  suggested,  so  that,  when 
bidden  to  table,  he  talked  —  while  seating 
himself,  and  when  seated  also. 

"  There  is  one  thing  odd,"  he  remarked.  "  I 
had  heard  of  the  beauty  of  the  woman  of 
Belvidere,  and  the  handsomeness  of  the  men, 
so  to  call  it,  not  to  call  it  beauty.  The  first 
fict  I  have  proved,  but  scantily,  for  the  sov- 
ereign representative  of  it  differs  widely  in 
iy])e  and  tinting  from  the  legitimate  accepted 
national  ones.  But  as  for  men,  I  have  not 
seen  one  who  looked  commonly  human,  not 
that  they  are  bad-looking,  though  they  cer- 
tainly are  not  handsome,  for  they  are  blank. 


EUMOR. 


101 


They  have  no  more  expression,  scarcely  more 
color  than  old  bronze  reliefs  worn  down 
almost  to  their  backgrounds.  Dim,  semi- 
drawn  by  nature,  although  of  prime  develop- 
ment, they  all  look  like  impressions,  each 
one  fainter  and  more  adumbrous  —  of  Rey- 
nolds' '  Banished  Lord.'  " 

"Ah,"  said  Rodomant — "a  handsome 
man  you  want.  Certainly,  the  prince  is 
neither  that  nor  beautiful ;  and  for  the  rest, 
the)  look  like  medals  cast  of  Adam  the  day 
he  was  turned  out  of  Paradise ;  or  the  day 
before,  for  still  they  are  in  Paradise,  though 
it  is  not  for  them.  No  wonder,  either,  if 
you  knew  —  but  you  had  better  not  inquire, 
because  it  might  stop  your  painting,  and 
could  do  no  good.  Well,  I  could  show  you 
a  man  who  is  perfect  for  face,  figure,  man- 
ner, though  he  has  done  all  he  can  to  spoil 
his  literal  handsomeness.  He  is  of  grain  so 
fine  that  his  impositions  of  self  and  church 
only  super-refine  him.  That  would  be  a 
head  for  a  picture,  without  need  of  flattery." 

"  Is  he  a  monk  ?  "  asked  Romana,  eagerly. 

"  As  good,  he  is  a  priest,  one  after  rule 
as  well  as  ideal.  A  person  who  would  be 
delightful  in  any  rank,  even  as  Porphyro's 
executioner." 

"  What !  "  cried  Romana,  with  haughty 
wrathful  tone. 

"  Oil,  I  forgot,  he  would  of  course  crown 
his  people  —  assimilation  of  himself,  by  drop- 
ping into  the  jaws  of  the  murder-trap  — or 
Bas  the  director  put  the  gag  on  the  popular 
life-annihilator  ?  " 

"  There  has  neither  been  an  execution 
yet,  nor  has  the  murder-trap,  as  you  call  it, 
been  put  together.  It  is  wrajjped  in  straw 
and  hessian,  mutilated  limb  from  limb, 
shelved  in  a  stable  which  may  be  its  mauso- 
leum for  as  many  years  of  death,  as  he  — 
God  grant  them  many  beyond  the  mortal 
span  —  has  years  of  ^{/e." 

Rodomant  perhaps  more  than  any  man 
appreciated  Porphyro's  gi-eatness  ;  he  there- 
fore had  compassion  on  the  appreciation  of 
another  for  his  possible  goodness.  He  made 
r.o  comment,  therefore,  on  Romana's  apt 
aspiration  ;  but  Romana,  who  still  shuddered 
a  little  at  the  idea  of  that  mangled  and  dis- 
armed murder,  as  men  of  his  temperament 
always  will,  turned  gladly  from  that  subject 
to  the  last  before  it  mentioned. 

"  Priest  or  monk,  I  wish  I  might  see  him, 
dress  and  aU,  the  perfect  super-refined  man 
you  spoke  of.  I  have  left  at  home  a  great 
picture  —  oh,  that  would  even  cover  that 
side  of  your  lofty  room  —  of  a  '  point '  in 
Abelard  and  Heloise.  I  want  an  Abelard, 
none  too  ideal  however,  for  Abelard  was  a 
faulty  mortal,  faultier  as  a  monk,  and  in  his 
face  I  would  give  the  predisposition.  Now 
a  man,  who  has  ever  been  handsome,  can 
never  have  been  ideal,  because  a  model. 
Therefore,  I  should  be  glad  to  see  him. 
You  understand,  it  is  against  my  conscience 
to  idealize,  or  I  should  not  want  an  Abelard, 
21 


they  would  mock  me  with  multitude.  And 
no  common  monk  would  do,  nor  priest, 
because  common  mortals,  alas !  are  not 
models." 

"  Poor  man,  you  thirst  for  the  Ideal  amidst 
all  your  surfeit  of  realism,"  mused  Rodo- 
mant rapidly,  "  or  you  would  not  call  the 
common  no  model.  Why,  models  abound 
in  street  corners!  —  I  wonder  whether  he 
would  come.  Certainly  he  desired  openly 
that  our  intimacy  should  be  both  restricted, 
and,  when  carried  on  —  in  his  place,  not 
mine.  However,  that  was  when  I  was  in 
other  circumstances  —  the  servants  are  re- 
spectful, however  disrespectful-feeling  to  me, 
now !  And  though  I  took  lessons  in  his  cell, 
I  never  took  occasion  to  return  the  compli- 
ment by  inviting  him  ceremoniously.  I  will 
even  try." 

So  he  scrawled,  and  sent  by  the  page  a 
note  to  Rosuelo.  Now  the  page  had  a  horror 
of  Rosuelo,  like  that  which  children-Saxons 
entertain  of  ghosts ;  and  having  hit  hard 
the  door  sunk  into  the  stone-cell  at  the  an- 
gle of  the  convent-wall,  and,  on  the  appear- 
ance of  a  narrow  a])erture  of  light,  dashed 
in  the  missive  at  all  risks  of  reception  or 
non-reception,  rushed  back  without  looking 
behind  him,  for  fear  of  being  forced  into  his 
companionship. 

"  Now,"  said  Rodomant,  hearing  his  report 
highly  varnished,  to  the  intent  that  Rosuelo 
was  even  then  upon  the  way,  "  while  we  wait 

—  for  my  coff'ee  would  keep  hot  and  fresh 
till  the  end  of  the  year,  if  only  my  lamp 
would  keep  alight  and  my  eyes  open  —  do 
tell  me  something  of  yourself,  and  do  not 
think  me  presumptuous  that  I  ask  you  to 
confide,  after  our  last  interview  and  its  con- 
fidence, which  was  certanly  no  forced  one." 

"  It  would  be  rather  more  like  presurap- 
tion  on  my  side,  if  there  existed  any  —  in 
your  position.  Ah,  I  know  none  so  enviable, 
yet  none  could  be  so  base  as  to  envy  you  — 
so  rigidly  is  it  deserved,  so  strictly  was  it 
won." 

"  Well,  my  position  I  would  certainly  not 
change  for  any  under  the  king  of  the  uni- 
verse. Yet  it  is  not  enviable,  nor  had  I  eve; 
reckoned  its  actual  worth  till  you  appraisec. 
it.  Because  my  reasons  for  valuing  it  can- 
not be  the  same  as  yours." 

"  At  home  in  the  home  of  the  sovereign 

—  the  kingdom's  centre,  close  upon  its  core. 
Fancy  an  artist  —  without  precise  antece- 
dent,'for  genius  is  not  precise  —  getting  such 
a  nest  in  Britain." 

"  Oh,  as  far  as  that  goes,  it  is  merely  likt 
comparing  the  fate  of  a  fly  in  the  rotten 
middle  of  an  English  medlar,  with  that  of  a 
bee  in  the  rosy  pulp  of  one  of  our  pome- 
granates.    That,  however,  is  nature's  doing 

—  none  can  contradict  her." 

"  Ah,  yes,  I  was  wearied  too  with  the 
dried  figs  of  Parisinia.  And  when  Por- 
phyro  invited  me  to  come  with  him  ibr  the 
purpose  of  painting  the  princess  Belvidore, 


162 


RUMOR. 


I  vfas  too  glad  to  take  any  length  of  leap  for 
the  chance  of  alighting  on  a  change.  And 
■what  a  change  !  The  first  glance  told  me 
that  my  system,  the  invention  of  my  experi- 
ence, is  true.  I  believed  it  before,  then  I 
knew  it." 

"  You  have  not  abandoned  yet  your  '  mis- 
sion'?  "  asked  Rodomant.  "That  is  the 
i)roper  word,  as  I  heard  it  called  in  England, 
recollect  your  pictures  as  though  I  pos- 
eessed  of  each  a  photograph,  as  they  call  it 
truly  —  or  sun  picture,  as  they  call  it,  / 
think  falsely,  for  who  knows  any  thing  about 
the  sun,  or  whether  that  produces  the  said 
pictures?  Your  paintings  were  faultless  — 
now  one  longed  for  the  least  flaw  to  destroy 
tl  e  finite  sense  of  their  being  pictures  only — " 

"  But  the  real  peculiarity  of  my  pictures 
—  their  patent  wrung  from  the  majority, 
however  they  may  snarl  or  question  —  is 
that  they  are  not  like  pictures,  but  the  real 
and  visible,  as  it  is,  not  as  it  is  seen.  Here 
one  cannot  miss  that  charm  of  Truth  ;  the 
air  is  so  lucid,  it  neither  obscures  nor  mag- 
nifies ;  so  untainted,  unveiled  is  Light,  that 
every  object  seen  in  it  —  not  through  its 
medium  —  is  itself.  The  dust-plumes  on 
the  butterfly  can  be  defined  and  color-drawn 
without  capturing  it ;  the  birds  show  each 
feather  —  not  only  its  sheen  and  shadow  — 
on  the  wing ;  the  flowers  have  leave  of  Na- 
ture to  show  their  veins  and  frosted  surface 
as  clearly  as  their  edges.  Yes,  one  can  paint 
the  real  at  a  distance  from  it,  here  ! " 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  R.odomant,  seriously, 
even  earnestly.  "  You  will  find  it  even  less 
easy  than  in  the  land  of  frogs,  where  you 
had  to  light  up  a  false  noon  with  gas  to  illus- 
trate \our  lay-angels  and  post-mortem  mod- 
els. You  will  find  that  though  you  have  no 
mist  to  cling  and  gather  to  your  edges,  and 
wing  your  atmosphere  with  mystery,  you 
have  an  atmosphere  whose  depth  deceives 
you  like  transparent  water.  The  foliage,  too, 
is  either  of  leaf  so  large  and  spreading  that 
its  viscid  glow  catches  the  light  in  broad  sil- 
very reflections,  these  sheened  again  with 
purple  by  the  reflected  sky,  and  both  impos- 
sible to  depict  literally  as  the  steam  from 
morning  dew  :  or  else  the  leaves  have  fans 
60  radiating,  yet  close  and  plume-like,  that 
the  sun  can  only  creep  between  the  dusky 
threads  himself  in  lines  of  dimmest  golden 
shadow  —  as  easily  might  he  pierce  with  un- 
defiled  white  ray  to  the  sea-blue  ocean-for- 
ests. As  for  our  butterflies,  our  birds,  our 
flowers,  paint  them  if  you  can,  (close  or  at  a 
distance.)  articulate,  anatomize  them  —  their 
tints  defy  your  palette,  and  yours  will  be  an 
adumbration  of  them,  poor  as  the  northern 
rahibow  beside  the  jewel-prism  of  the  secret 
mine.  You  are  to  paint  the  princess,  I 
think  ?  "  in  no  changed  tone,  but  connecting 
her,  as  it  were,  with  material  subjects  that 
chain  not  the  hearts  of  men. 

"  1  am  tc  paint  the  princess,  I  regret  to 
Bay." 


"  You  regret  —  ah  !  you  do  not  then  ad 
mire  her  ?  " 

"  As  I  should  admire  a  lilac-veined,  frail- 
textured,  white  wild  anemone,  among  the 
burning  tinted  roses  and  vivid  wild  geraniums 
of  Belvidere.  Or  as  one  of  the  pearls  she 
wears  to-night  in  pallid  triumph,  near  the 
same  jewei  prism  you  mentioned  —  of  ruby, 
amethyst,  emerald.  She  has  no  color  ;  there 
is  nothing  to  work  out  but  her  eyes,  and 
they  are  too  lambent,  without  any  flush  more 
golden  than  a  shooting-star," 

"  They  are  cool  eyes  enough,"  said  Rodo- 
mant ;  then    with    veiled    irony,    "  I  do  not     ■ 
wonder  at  your  objection  or  indifference  to     ■ 
eyes  expressionless   and  star-staring,  accus-    ^ 
tomed  as  you  are  to  angels  of  the  sun.    How 
is   the   one   you   painted,    and   I   saw  —  or 
rather,  I  hope  the  original  non-angel  is  well 
in  health  ?  " 

"  She  is  well — more  beautiful,  more  c/olden 
than  ever,  and  has  three  cherubs,  all  golden 
like  herself;  gold-haired,  golden-eyed,  and,  I 
believe,  despite  the  alloy  their  father  blessed 
them  with,  gold-hearted  too.  They  have 
such  limbs  —  large,  sound, and  nobly  tinted; 
no  fleshless  fair  nor  living  marble,  as  is  the 
cant.  Their  bloom  is  vital,  and  their  roses 
are  sweeter  to  pluck  in  kisses  than  all  your 
roses  here.  Saw  you  them  on  the  knees  of 
this  fleshless  and  colorless  royal  beauty,  you 
would  of  course  call  them  vulgar  looking  ; 
round  their  mother  they  play  like  elves  of 
beauty,  as  well  as  imps  of  health." 

"  Your  wife  and  your  children  are  here, 
of  course  ? " 

"  Dear,  no,"  returned  Romana  with  an 
eye  half-anxious,  half-uneasy,  and  a  wholly 
mournful  /aW  of  face  ;  "  it  would  have  been 
a  deed  of  unpirdonable  selfishness  to  have 
brought  them.  They  have  a  pretty  home, 
and  she  has  friends.  On  the  whole,  it 
pleased  her  that  I  should  travel.  She  is  no 
selfish  wife  or  unduteous  mother  ;  above  all, 
it  gi-atified  her  that  I  should  come  with  Por- 
phyro,  certainly  one  of  the  men,  if  not  the 
man,  most  marked  in  Europe  ;  the  wonder 
was  that  I  became  concerned  with  him  at 
all." 

"  And  thus  they  speak  of  one,  who,  a  year 
ago,  was  much  like  a  leaden  franco  at  the 
bottom  of  a  gutter,"  mused  Rodomant, 
speechless.  "  Well,  in  those  days  I  was  not  ' 
picked  up  myself.  It  is  like  a  tale  of 
Grimm's  ;  still,  I  wonder  about  his  wife." 

"  Don't  you  miss  her  very  much  ?  I  beg 
pardon,  your  wife,  I  mean,"  carrying  on  his 
last  thought  aloud. 

"  Yes,  desperately,"  with  emiAasis  pas. 
sionately  painful ;  "'but  it  was  obliged  to  b( 
—  to  stay  in  Enghnd  was  becoming  also 
desperate".  So,  parted  in  the  flesh,  we  enact 
our  old  love-days  and  dear  courtship  over 
again  in  spirit,  for  it  is  in  absence."  These 
words  pronounced  so  bitterly  that  they 
touched  Rodomant's  weakest  heart-string, 
albeit  the  most  concealed. 


RUMOR. 


163 


"  Separation  must  indeed  be  dreadful,  be 
all  but  unbearable,  unless  decreed  by 
neaven." 

"  Yes,  but  this  was  not  decreed  by  heaven  ; 
it  was  a  providence  of  the  jealousy  of  man." 

"  How  so  ?  I  do  not  inquire  from  imper- 
tinence or  curiosity,  but  interest.  It  seemed 
to  me  you  had  reached  a  stand,  whence 
man's  jealousy  could  not  ])luck  you  —  so 
high  that  the  eternal  tide  of  competition 
would  sweep  helow  your  ear.  You  had 
painted  for  the  future,  too,  a  whole  gallery  ; 
even  liad  you  died,  you  must  have  lived 
there." 

"  Oh,"  exclaimed  Romaua,  with  wilder 
bitterness,  "  it  was  not  even  only  jealousy  ; 
it  might  be  named  ingratitude,  if  one  dared 
call  any  thing  by  its  right  name  in  the 
world." 

And  he  paused,  flushed,  panting,  beneath 
the  torment  of  his  temperament ;  the  vivid 
eager,  even  wholly  sanguine  sad  of  mood  ; 
the  character  in  whom  it  is  at  once  difficult 
to  eclipse  hope,  and  to  persuade  that  eclipse 
is  not  endless  darkness. 

"Ingratitude — just  that,  for  did  not  I 
labor  that  I  might  teach  ?  did  I  slur  over  my 
own  defects  —  spared  I  practice,  which  was 
grinding  work  ^  Did  I,  having  mastered  at 
once  my  art  and  my  secret,  withhold  my  ad- 
vice any  more  than  I  concealed  my  secret  ? 
I  gave  both  to  the  Avorld  freely  as  to  the 
adept  —  the  few.  I  bestowed  my  gold,  won 
from  a  purer  than  ancient  alchemy  —  my 
pure  and  precious  gold  —  I  rendered  up  the 
])rocess  also.  See  how  they  perverted  the 
truth  ;  and  look !  the  falsehood,  the  counter- 
feit, retaliated  not  on  its  fathers,  the  false  ; 
but  on  me,  the  loyal  parent  of  the  truth,  no 
longer  secret  ;  on  me,  the  discoverer,  the 
master,  after  such  huge,  such  devoted,  such 
yearning  labor." 

And  Romana  actually  wrung  his  hands, 
and  on  his  face,  a  glittering  mirror  of  de- 
spair, stood  two  large,  heavy  tears  —  no 
token  feminine  on  so  lofty  and  intelligent  a 
face,  but  of  a  high-strung  nature,  pitched 
suddenly  too  low,  wai'])ed  into  agony  by 
device  of  others,  or,  perhaps,  I)y  unconscious 
self-deception  ;  its  bright  pride  tarnished,  its 
lustrous  honor  smirched. 

'  Y'Hi  mean  that  you  were  imitated?" 
asked  Rodomant,  with  his  electric  intuition, 
which  had  stra^k  that  impression  through 
his  very  pit}' 

"  Imitated  !  "  Of  course  I  was.  I  had  — 
nay,  I  am  a  master ;  my  school  was  a  rage, 
a  delirium,  an  insanity  —  fatal  popular  appre- 
ciation that  has  ruined  me,  spoiled  my  glory, 
crushed  my  vernal  wreath!  It  Mill  also  ruin 
them,  my  imitators,  but  not  yet  —  not  while 
they  yet  breathe  to  inherit  ruin  ;  it  will  come 
after  them,  slowly,  consumingly,  like  dust, 
decay,  or  death.  Slow  for  them,  for  me  sud- 
den, because  they  are  counterfeit,  /  real ; 
and  there  are  in  the  world,  for  hundreds  of 
the  true,  tens  of  thousands  of  the  false." 


"  Do  their  pictures  —  such  imitations  — 
sell,  then  ?  " 

"Sell  —  they  may  —  they  do.  Let  them 
sell ;  what  matters  that  ?  I  have  earned, 
saved,  sufficient  for  my  children  at  least  to 
live.  But  they  have  taken  my  place,  or 
stand  near  me  in  the  world's  purblind  eye, 
and  rivalled  :  I  am,  I  icill  be  nothing.  Men 
of  worth,  justice,  earnest  optimism,  who 
praised  me  as  the  only  one  who  had  dared 
regenerate  Art,  whose  verdict  was  wise  as 
well  as  generous,  have  turned  from  me, 
veered  to  the  mock  suns  behind  my  place  in 
art's  pure  sky.  And  they  who  worshipped 
my  light,  worship  their  mist-won  meteors 
now  —  the  monstrosities,  absurdities,  here- 
sies, of  my  pupils  and  my  enemies.  These 
j  have  cast  my  golden  models  in  the  dross  and 
I  lava-ash  of  their  sensual  or  used-out  inven- 
tions ;  and  they  infringe  on  my  patent  unar- 
rested, because  the  vile  and  the  dishonest 
favor  them." 

Well  for  Rodomant's  courteous  character 
that  Rosuelo  at  this  point  entered,  or  he 
would  have  infallibly  expressed,  what  only 
occurred  to  him  forcefully.  That  it  must  be 
a  false  principle  of  art  which  could  lose  its 
efficacy  through  perversions  of  its  particular 
application,  as  imitation  ever  tends  to  en- 
hance the  value  of  the  real.  Proof  in  what- 
ever deteriorates,  that  the  foundation  or  fact 
was  insecure. 

Rosuelo  entered,  looking  as  monkish  as 
art-modelist  could  desire  —  seeing  that  his 
monkery  was  but  a  mask  and  custom,  after 
all.  And  the  first  glance  at  his  other  troubled 
guest,  showed  Rodomant  he  had  done  the 
best  thing  for  him,  were  he  to  enjoy  the  pass- 
ing hour.  Romana  fell  into  the  enchantment 
of  the  snare ;  a  face  and  form  perfect  for 
'  study,  and  lightly  as  he  glanced  over  them, 
I  the  study  was  in  an  instant  prospectively 
I  sketched.  Rodomant  did  his  honors  with  a 
quaint  stateliness,  exactly  like  that  of  a  clever 
\  and  ardent  child,  and  just  so  gloried  over 
the  magnificent  arrangements  the  day  had 
made  it  easy  lo  carry  out ;  with  treasures  of 
j  porcelain  and  plate,  and  damask  heavy  as 
woven  silver  —  not  to  mention  the  exquisite 
I  dishes  of  game  fed  on  sweetmeats,  fish  caugiit 
in  the  bay  of  Belvidere,  and  seeming  flavored 
as  by  some  sweet  salt  found  in  no  other  sea, 
t  and  the  fruits  of  eternal  freshness  —  all 
.  which  Romana  jiartook  of  with  the  refined 
I  zest  so  agreeable  to  witness  and  gratify  at 
j  one's  own  table.  As  for  the  host,  he  ate  and 
;  drank  as  little  as  ever,  yet  as  faithfully  ad- 
hered to  his  bread,  coffee,  and  dry  conserve. 
'  But  as  for  Rosuelo,  who  when  Rodomant 
had  drunk  coffee  had  drunk  water,  and  when 
Rodomant  ate  bread  had  eaten  nothing ; 
that  is  in  the  only  banquet  they  had  ever 
shared  together  before;  Rosuelo,  on  this 
second  occasion,  ate  little  certainly,  though 
he  tasted  every  thing  in  every  dish.  But  he 
drank  — not  glasses  nor  goblets,  but  bottles 
I  not  water  nor  sherbet  -  but  wine.     Rodo- 


164 


RUMOR. 


mant  was  stultifiecl  out  of  what  small  appe- 
tite he  possessed,  and  actually  forgot  Roniana 
and  his  troubles,  to  watch  the  handsome 
priest.  For  Rosnelo  was  handsome  now,  as 
a  knight,  a  gallant,  a  courtier  ever  shone. 
The  wine  breathed  over  him  a  superb  color- 
ing, if  not  a  legitimate  ecclesiastical  one. 
His  grave  and  even  awful  expression  van- 
ished, his  face  radiated  its  own  inborn  beauty, 
not  repressed.  What  mystery,  what  mistake 
was  this  ?  or  had  Rodomant  been  mistaken 
before  ?  It  was  some  time  since  he  had  seen 
Rosuelo  habitually  —  had  custom  shifted,  or 
nature  been  concealed  ?  He  could  not  think 
the  latter,  for  Rosuelo's  conversation,  though 
careful,  was  of  a  stamp  as  different  as  his 
appetite  had  been.  He  ransacked  his  secu- 
lar recollections,  told  anecdotes  singularly 
amusing,  as  they  were  strictly  proper,  was 
elegant,  discursive,  literary  —  now  and  then 
didactic.  At  last,  Romana,  who  was  a  person 
freer  after  wine,  though  never  intoxicated 
since  his  birth,  exclaimed  joyously,  "  It  will 
do,  though  at  first  I  doubted  it.  Your  very 
expression,  as  well  as  the  scaffoiding,  suits. 
You  are  positively  selfish  enough  for  an 
Abelard  —  how  much  too  long  he  lived  !  " 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

Through  that  week  —  PorphjTo's  visit  so 
extending  —  of  course  Rodomant  never  saw, 
nor  expected  to  see,  the  princess  alone  — 
indeed  she  was  never  by  herself.  It  was 
within  the  palace,  a  week  of  outward  calm  — 
after  Rodomant's  celebrated  honors  —  for  it 
was  asserted,  no  longer  whispered,  that  the 
director  loving  not  show  nor  form,  was  be- 
sides present  there  at  that  time  to  achieve 
an  amity  with  the  princely  house,  too  dear  — 
and  when  consummated  to  be  too  near,  for 
the  ministrations  of  punctilio  to  suffice  for 
either.  Had  the  princess  been  another  kind 
of  woman,  these  loud  rumors  might  have 
reached  her,  but  she  actually  had  no  friend, 
no  acquaintance,  no  intendant  who  dared  to 
address  her,  unaddressed.  Benevolent  in 
the  highest  degree  and  broadest  sense,  she 
was  unajiproachable,  save  through  her  char- 
ity, and  so  aj^pealed  to  she  gave  bounty 
instead  of  confidence.  Except  to  one  —  and 
that  one  not  a  woman  —  she  had  never  shown 
a  glimpse  of  the  soul  that  aspired  and  suf- 
fered, in  the  midst  of  her  own  being  —  that 
atmosphere  of  universal  love.  From  him  too 
she  had  lately  withdrawn  —  or  rather  in  him 
she  had  not  completed — her  confidence. 
Rodomant  knew  this  was  fruit  of  his  own 
fault,  and  of  course  gloried  in  jlie  punish- 
ment. There  was,  however,  something  further 
to  be  endured  this  week — fleeting  fast,  how 
fast !  for  her  —  for  him  drawn  out  in  almost 
immeasurable  weariness.      Now,  for   what- 


ever rumor  repeated,  the  people  her  servants 
had  authority,  so  open  and  evident  was  Por- 
phyro's  disposition,  so  all  but  declared  the 
meaning  and  intention  of  his  presence  there. 
It  was,  mystery  away,  really  extraordinary 
he  should  have  risked  his  new  and  ])recious 
guerdon-power  by  leaving  to  themselves  his 
inferior,  if  contemiwraueous,  despots  ;  it  was 
a  risk  actual,  and  by  no  means  slight  —  they 
were  literally,  without  him,  headless  mem- 
bers, and  there  was  no  head  living  to  take  his 
place  —  the  living  or  dead.  The  princess,  who 
knew  politics  just  as  a<  witty  and  wise  true 
woman  knows  them,  if  she  is  de\  oted  to  a 
man  devoted  to  fhem,  comprehended  clearly 
his  sphere  of  policy  as  she  could  have  traced 
the  thwarting  threads  of  a  cobweb  in  the  sun, 
at  the  same  time  that  she  was  profoundly, 
femininely  ignorant  of  the  great  and  univer- 
sal scheme  of  policy;  was  well  aware  of  the 
risk  he  gladly  ran,  and  valued  his  presence, 
albeit  a  passing  one,  accordingly.  Actually 
none  knew  better  than  she,  that  he  Avas  cast- 
ing present  work  into  the  future,  which  none 
other  than  himself  could  achieve,  to  be 
accomplished  after  that  near  dark  day  of 
separation  which  looked  so  far  oft"  for  her, 
the  golden  glorious  night  of  his  arrival. 

Rodomant,  however,  she  never  forgot ;  he 
was  inexplicably  associated  in  her  mind  with 
Porphyro.  PorphjTo  had  sent  him  to  her 
father,  ostensibly, 'but  for  her  service,  her 
use,  her  consolation,  all  three  charges  he 
had  fulfilled.  Porphyro  had  also  benefited 
Rodomant  ;  every  person  Porj^hyro  freshly 
benefited,  and  they  really  numbered  thou- 
sands by  this  time,  made  his  character  more 
precious,  his  great  human  sympathy  more 
close  and  more  supporting.  To  feel  him 
greater  than  herself,  in  human  and  life-great- 
ness, for  what  she  termed  his  genius  was 
merely  accessory  in  her  esteem,  was  her 
soul's  delight,  all  the  rapture  left,  or  rather 
given,  her  in  this  world.  So  it  had  been  she 
felt  for  Rodomant ;  he  stood  in  the  light  she 
cast  around  another,  when  first  he  came. 
And  of  late  she  had  remained  unconscious 
of  what  was  yet  a  fact,  that  Rodomant's  ser- 
vice, society,  and  art,  were  valuable  and  sup- 
porting in  themselves  alone,  and  on  his  own 
account.  She  still  charged  all  her  interest 
in  him  on  Porphyro,  who  ruled,  directed  her 
heart,  as  he  directed  those  men  he  chose  to 
rule.  In  that  man  love,  when  pure,  was  not 
strong  enough  to  conquer,  not  its  object, 
but  himself.  Passion  was  never  single,  it 
shared  his  mind's  design ;  the  personal 
sweetness  of  the  princess  had  first  stricken 
a  nature  violently  susceptible,  which  he  an- 
ticipated, checked,  brought  like  a  wild  horse 
lasso-bound,  doion,  ere  its  first  spring.  Fer- 
vent as  lava-smothered  flames,  strong  as  the 
west  wind,  rapid  as  the  whirlpool  _;  he  cov- 
ered, resisted,  iced  that  passion  in  itself  sub- 
lime and  natural ;  and  tortured  himself,  and 
delighted  in  such  torture,  all  the  same.  Yes, 
he  sufl'ered,  else  he  had  not  erred,  had  noj 


RUMOR. 


IGi 


(yrannously,  unmanfully,  kept  her  heart  also 
ill  the  purgal.n-y  of  suspense  —  to  purify  it 
of  all  earthly  selfishness,  or  of  its  love  for 
him. 

It  was  quite  and  simply  true  that  neither 
was  he  here  —  in  the  little  state  whose  calm, 
however  deceitful,  was  as  likely  to  last  its 
master's  time  as  the  stirring,  if  subdued  force 
of  rebellious  Iris  was  to  endure  Ids  spell  wil- 
lingly until  his  end  —  to  study  effete  tyran- 
nism  or  idiot-villany  in  its  so  named  head ; 
nor  had  he  retired  then  to  recreate  after  the 
struggle  for  success  just  met  and  crushed  by 
him.  Porphyro  never  paused  while  one  stone 
was  left  to  complete  or  strengthen  his  career's 
edifice.  No,  he  was  there  for  the  princess, 
in  fact  to  court  her,  to  woo  her  having  won 
—  the  natural  consequence  reversed  in  his 
idea.  Yet,  reckoned  by  honor,  in  what 
phase  of  loverhood  does  courtship  consist  ? 
Shall  he  mIio  never  declared  love,  be  allowed 
to  woo?  shall  he  win,  who  loved  too  long, 
too  patiently,  who  loved  too  deeply,  (in  short) 
for  expression  ?  So  the  princess,  though 
she  longed  in  her  heart's  heart,  to  be  alone 
with  Porphyro,  for  that  reason,  not  avoided, 
but  sought  not  solitude,  shared  with  him 
only.  She  considered,  instinctively  and 
rightly,  that  his  choice  should  direct  hers 
there.  And  so  his  often  did,  nay,  constantly. 
The  very  morning  after  that  first  golden 
night  of  meeting,  that  night  when  Rodomant 
had  repined  at  his  own  conviction  of  Por- 
phyro's  unworthiness  of  her,  because  in  her 
excitement  she  looked  so  hapi)v.  This  morn- 
ing Porphyro  had  followed  her  after  break- 
fast to  her  room  ;  even  paid  such  strict 
homage  to  her  rank  as  to  refrain  from  offer- 
ing her  an  arm  to  lean  on,  and  to  stand  the 
whole  time  she  sat.  This  conduct,  while  she 
was  sensitive  to  it  as  to  every  mood  of  his, 
only  deepened  her  consciousness  of  the  differ- 
ence between  his  behavior  and  his  feeling. 
For  still  his  looks  wildly  worshipped  her, 
his  eyes  yearned  after  her,  his  aspect  was  im- 
pregnated with  her  fascination,  in  place  of 
his  own.  As  for  their  conversation,  thus 
face  to  face  alone,  again  he  discussed  his 
plans,  in  part  fulfilled,  and  drew  forth  her 
ready  sympathy,  that  on  such  topics  owned 
no  reserve.  Rut  at  last,  when  after  an  hour 
this  unagitated  intercourse  passed  neither  to 
communion  of  heart  nor  spirit,  as  would 
have  been  natural,  seemed  inevitable,  then 
Adelalda's  unfailing  spirit  rose,  nor  would 
she  longer  remain  alone  with  him,  lest  he 
should  detect  the  shadow  of  her  desolation 
for  lack  of  such  communion  between  them. 
So  she  sent  for  Rodomant,  a  message  more 
direct  and  mcn-e  imperious  sounding  than 
ever  —  which,  indeed,  he  would  have  delayed 
long  time  to  answer  in  his  person,  at  any 
other  time.  Now,  going  straight  to  her  pres- 
ence, he  stood  some  minutes  unnoticed, 
while  she  was  attending  to  the  last  words  ol" 
Porphyro's  last  epigram,  and  while  he  stood, 
ascertained  in  a  glance   one  fact,  that  they 


were  not  betrothed.  No  witness  in  such  a 
case  had  been  endured,  nor  attendance  cf 
any  servant  commanded.  What  right,  then, 
had  Porphyro  there  ?  what  right  more  than 
himself  to  gaze  so?  But  self-conviction 
rose  to  check  that  condemnatory  instinct ; 
had  he  not  stood  alone  with  her,  close  beside 
her  as  permitted?  had  he  not  so  gazed? 
drinking  deeply  of  the  sweetness  of  her 
countenance,  sunning  his  soul  in  the  heaven 
of  her  expression.  Yes,  but  even  then  truth 
interrupted  the  pure  conviction,  "she  loved 
me  not,  therefore  I  made  her  not  suffer,  nor 
conscious  of  my  suffering  in  adoring  her; 
but  him  she  loves,  and  so  suffers  in  his  re- 
gard, his  silence ;  if  he  takes  not  heed,  he 
will  himself  destroy  her  love,  and  her  life 
will  relapse  into  the  death  of  life  —  despair." 
In  the  brief  space  he  had  stood  unnoticed  by 
her,  and  with  no  eyes  on  him,  he  was  yet 
observed.  Porphyro  felt  his  calm  indignant 
passion,  without  comprehending  its  cause  ; 
therefore  did  Porphyro  detest  him.  and  be- 
lieve him  worthy  to  be  detested.  Some  rea- 
son he  had,  however,  for  simulating  cordial- 
ity :  he  was  first  to  address  him  and  to  bid 
him  approach  ;  again  he  held  out  his  sceptre- 
less  diredin;/  hand  in  welcome.  Through 
the  urbane  action,  Rodomant  the  more  easily 
perceived,  as  by  contrast,  a  furtive  distrust 
in  the  corner,  and  an  icy  dishke  in  the  centre, 
of  Porphyro's  eye.  The  princess  ton  m'hs 
momentarily  troubled  at  his  aspect,  as  though 
it  were  augury  of  rivalship  unknown,  yet  un- 
revealed.  Had  she  been  questioned,  slie 
would  have  declared  she  was  only  troubled 
lest  Rodomant  should  not  behave  his  finest, 
lest  he  should  evince  too  open  an  unservilitv  ; 
above  all,  lest  he  should  fail  to  imply  —  if  he 
would  not  express  —  his  enduring  sense  of 
Porphyro's  benefaction.  She  need  not  have 
feared  ;  Rodomant  astonished  her,  and  posi- 
tively, had  she  been  sufficiently  unoccupied 
to  watch  him  narrowly,  he  might  have  an- 
noyed her  by  the  excess  of  his  exactitude  — 
his  rigid  and  manoeuvre-like  punctilio.  For 
each  compliment  paid  him,  he  returned  in- 
terest satirically  sweet,  and  delicately  exag- 
gerated ;  the  pains  he  took  to  divert  Por- 
phyro by  a  species  of  playing  he  could  ap- 
preciate, was  an  obvious  descent  to  his  ca- 
pacity—  an  artistic  condescension  to  one 
whose  parts,  how  great  soever,  were  M-holly 
innocent  of  an  artistic  impulse.  And  all  this 
deceiving  the  princess  —  though  it  also 
puzzled  her  M-ith  Rodomant  —  was  felt  by 
Porphyro,  he  knew  not  how ;  he  could  not 
have  descri'bed  to  his  very  "  bosom's  lord," 
or  lady.  So  affected  indescribably,  his  man- 
ner obviously  sank  from  its  simple  charm  to 
a  grave  and  repelling  diffidence,  and  he 
shrank  darkly  into  himself.  Now  the  prin- 
cess, who  loved  Porphyro  much  more  for  his 
plain  face  and  form  of  undignified  propor- 
tion, than  woman  ever  loved  a  man  for  his 
beauty  or  his  symmetry,  and  to  whom  he  wai 
much  more  valuable  without  power  and  plac« 


166 


RUMOR. 


than  98  possessing  either,  thought  that  a 
sudden  frame  of  love's  diffidence,  not  self- 
contempt,  had  seized  him  ;  a  mood  fostered 

—  in  her  fancy  —  by  Rodomant's  persist- 
ingly  romantic  music.  For  Rodomant  with- 
held all  passion  from  his  playing  in  presence 
of  Porphyro  ;  he  was  vain  enough  to  believe 
that  his  natural  strain  —  all  passion  —  might, 
with  Orphic  impulse,  drive  the  blood  faster 
to  a  slow  heart,  as  it  quickened  stocks  and 
stones  of  old.  "  And,"  thought  Rodomant 
to  himself,  "  he  shall  not  be  impelled  into 
expression ;  it  shall  be  natural,  or  none." 
By  the  time   the   audience  —  short  and  dull 

—  was  over,  and  the  princess,  addressed  by 
Porphyro,  agreed  to  ride  with  him  for  the 
next  hour,  the  director  was  quite  himself 
again,  for  his  sense  of  power  had  rallied  with 
that  of  Rodomant's  hopeless  secret  also. 
Again  he  shook  hands  with  that  indefinite 
person,  and  again  Rodomant,  revolting  from 
the  grasp,  returned  it  in  exact  proportion  of 
pressure,  and  ended  his  acting  for  that  time 
bv  bending  to  the  princess  like  a  stolid  man 
of  straw. 

Next  day,  as  from  Porphyro's  resumed  as- 
surance (nicknamed  impudence  by  uncom- 
promising Rodomant),  he  was  certain  of  be- 
forehand, he  was  not  sent  for.  Though  he 
wondered  not  at  that,  he  yet  wondered  what 
the  princess  did  all  day,  for  it  was  too  hot  to 
ride  or  go  out  of  doors.  Now  Rodomant 
had  invited  Romana  for  all  hours,  and  when- 
ever he  could  spare  the  time,  Romana  had 
freely  accepted  the  invitation.  This  night 
he  therefore  came,  and  Rodomant  heard  from 
him  that  he  had  that  morning  obtained  his 
first  sitting  of  the  princess.  "  Porphyro  was 
there,  too,"  added  Romana,  "  and  I  was  sorry 
for  it ;  for  pale,  frail,  and  unprincely  as  she 
is,  I  could  have  wished  to  give  her  a  differ- 
ent character  in  her  portrait.  In  her  ordi- 
nary moments  she  resembles  a  weeping  Ma- 
donna —  that  is,  a  Madonna  who  is  nearly 
always  weepnig.  and  has  in  her  picture  latehj 
wept.  In  this  accidental  —  or  incidental  — 
mood,  she  embodies  the  anguish  of  the  Mag- 
dalen. I  have  never  spent  so  much  time  in 
mapping  out  a  face  so  hopelessly." 

Rodomant  crushed  his  teeth  together,  then 
was  calm,  for  the  sense  griped  him  suddenly, 
which  clutches  once,  if  not  oftener,  all  mas- 
ter-minds ;  the  sense  that  madness  is  in  their 
own  power.  Perhaps  no  genius  ever  passes 
through  the  gate  of  death  without  ex])erien- 
cing  the  reality  also  ;  but  that  here  signifies 
nothing.  The  princess  a  Magdalen  !  If  the 
allusion  sent  him  not  mad,  he  settled  in  his 
own  mind  it  was  because  the  idea  was  an  in- 
sane one. 

"  You  are  not  going  back  with  Porphyro, 
I  think  you  said  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  I  stay  some  time  —  I  shall  have 
to  paint  the  ]irince,  and  who  knows  ?  pei'haps 
I  may  be  ordered  to  paint  yov.  There  are 
portraits  of  minstrels  and" — fools  he  was 
going   to   add  —  but  merely  told   a   fib,  —  , 


"and  poets  of  the  court,  in  one  of  thegalle 
ries ;  not  that  I  mean  to  compare  myself 
with  one  or  two  of  their  artists  —  richwith 
age.  Well,  I  shall  perhaps  stay  here  six 
months,  then  go  on  to  the  East — but  that 
too  means  perhaps.  I  had  no  intention  of 
beginning  her  portrait  yet,  but  he  wished  it, 
and  she  willed  it  instantly.  He  wants  to  see 
the  sketch,  as  if  he  coukf  tell  what  a  ]3ortrail 
of  mine  would  be,  unfinished.  No  one 
finishes  portraits.  But  then,  too,  no  oi>e 
sketches  right,  and  the  more  wrong  sketches 
are  painted  nid,  the  falser  they  will  apjiear, 
and  be.  Still,  who  has  a  good  eye,  or  a  good 
sight?  scarce  any  one."  So  Romana  mildly 
raved  as  usual. 

Rodomant,  appearing  to  attend,  heard 
nothmg,  except  M'hen  he  became  quiet,  then 
inquired,  "  Is  Porphyro  present  at  the  sit- 
tings ?  " —  though  Romana  had  already  said 
so. 

•'  Yes,  and  she  looks  at  him  —  she  could 
not  help  it,  though  that  is  actually  the  rea- 
son I  caiuiot  get  on.  After  I  had  placed  her 
properly,  he  placed  himself  exactly  o|)i)osit.e 

—  her,  I  mean,  and  as  her  eyes  are  directed 
straight,  she  cannot  help  looking  at  him  of 
course.  As  he  did  so,  he  exclaimed  wittily, 
'  I  am  an  obtuse  target  for  the  beam-arrows 
of  the  hunter  Eros.'  I  never  thought  to 
laugh  at  Porphyro,  but  turned  poetic,  he  is 
as  irresistible  as  a  comic  elf-face,  painted  for 
the  calyx  of  an  orange-flower." 

Next  day  Romana  had  another  sitting,  the 
day  after  that,  a  third.  Further  than  that, 
the  princess  having  admired  specially  a  beau- 
tiful piece  of  scenery  in  one  act  of  Rodo- 
mant's new  opera,  whose  scenery  Rodomant 
had  determinately  superintended  himself, 
she  happened  to  express  her  regret  to  Por- 
phyro that  such  a  scene  should  be  destroyed 

—  or  rather  exist  only  in  illusion  so  coai'selv 
grounded,  and  with  an  atmos])here  of  gas. 
Forthwith,  at  Porphyro's  instigation,  the 
scene  was  put  upon  the  stage,  without  music, 
motion,  actors,  or  gas-light  —  in  broad  day; 
and  at  Porphyro's  expense,  Romana  was 
employed  to  paint  it  after  his  own  fashion 
for  the  princess,  while  the  portrait  was  to 
stand  over,  for  finish,  the  day  of  Porphyro's 
departure  now  very  near.  Romana  made  a 
beautiful  picture  ;  in  fact  it  was  as  proper  a 
subject  for  him,  as  engravings  are  fit  for 
]5hotography.  And  the  first  time  Rodnmant 
was  called  to  see  it,  he  just  carried  his  eyes 
over  the  great  canvas  piled  as  it  were  with 
golden,  rufous-tinted,  ultramarine,  and  ruby 
layers,  then  turned  to  Romana  and  remarked, 
"  I  said  you  would  come  to  scene-painting, 
if  you  remember."  So,  from  that  hour,  he 
lost  himself  Romana  as  a  friend,  and  very 
rarely  received  him  as  a  guest  ;  thus  hn 
heard  not  through  him  how  the  princess 
passed  her  mornings,  nor  whether  Porphy- 
ro's phantom-suit  was  laid  by  the  reality. 

It  was  the  last  night  now  of  that  Jong- 
short-week,  and,  for  the  fii-st  time  in  tne 


RUMOR. 


16 


evening,  Adelalda  was  with  Porphyro  alone. 
It  was  not  on  terraces  or  in  gaidens,  for  he 
had  said  something  straightforward,  sound- 
ing incoherent  to  her  impassioned  fancy, 
about  its  not  oeing  solitude  where  lights 
could  be  seen,  music  heard,  or  chance  foot- 
steps might  cross  their  path.  They  had  first 
been  together  in  the  royal  saloons,  and  it 
was  close  upon  the  hour  of  royal  rethement, 
when  he  so  easily  persuaded  her  that  near 
the  jtalace  they  could  not  be  alone.  The 
princess,  desperate  in  her  delicate  pride  — 
not  in  her  love,  she  was  too  gentle  there  — 
would  have  risked  almost  any  thing  this 
night,  to  have  her  long  doubts  removed  — 
her  hopes  confirmed  —  or  both  crushed  to- 
gether. In  this  desperate  desire  there  was 
neither  shame  nor  self-contempt  ;  it  was 
roused  nature  in  its  unclad  modesty,  that 
shivers  without  the  pure  raiment  love  only 
promises  to  wrap  it  in  —  which  love  with- 
holds not  at  the  fulness  of  time  —  only  nig- 
gard prudence,  or  some  passion  less  gener- 
ous than  that  of  love. 

They  went  down  to  the  sea ;  Porphyro  as 
ever,  leading.  Not  near  the  polished  stair 
at  M'hose  sweep  Rodomant  had  landed,  but 
below  that,  and  at  a  point  more  isolated  ;  a 
silvery  strand,  with  the  tide  lapping  close  to 
their  feet,  strewn  thick  with  shells,  by  day 
like  flakes  of  rainbow,  now  like  long  ridges 
of  thrown-up  pearls  —  and  ocean  weeds  as 
wild  and  lovely  as  mermaids'  hair.  Gray 
wreaths  of  fresh-foamed  froth  gave  out  their 
ineff"aDle  odor  to  the  breathing  but  noiseless 
night ;  the  moon  was  ruby-golden,  low,  and 
crescent  ;  its  crescent  and  reflected  shadow 
made  it  a  whole  but  mysterious-looking 
sphere,  which  lit  a  broad  path  lustrous-rosy 
on  the  oil-calm  water,  broken  off"  by  a  cleft 
of  darkness  before  it  touched  the  shore. 
The  heaven  overhead,  dark-blue  as  the 
bosom  of  the  purple  iris,  seemed  vault  on 
•vault  higher  than  the  stars,  they  floated 
deep  in  't,  yet  seeming  nearer  earth  than 
heaven.  One,  vivid,  glittering,  yet  serene, 
looked  half-ready  to  roll  from  those  purple 
deeps,  a  drop  of  dew  from  light's  fountain, 
yet  trembled  onwards  steadfastly  —  a  ser- 
aph's tear  or  smile  !  The  princess  asked 
herself  this  question  —  strangely  her  heart 
always  warmed  —  her  spirit  seemed  winged 
to  those  far  stars  she  felt  so  near.  She  had 
seen  that  "  bright  particular "  one  arrest 
Porphvro's  eye  first,  and  of  course  hers  fol- 
lowed its  direction.  Soon  she  looked  down 
from  that  glory  to  'ds  starlit,  night-shaded 
face  —  that  owed  so  much  of  charm  to  the 
dusk  and  the  gh'Uer  of  the  tempered  dark- 
ness. The  ambition  on  the  rigid-strong 
features  —  passion-torn  for  hei-  —  the  god- 
dess, too  —  sometimes  seemed  quenched  in 
aspiration  now,  the  lines  deep-worn  with 
sleepless  contemplation  of  that  dim  dream  of 
iJestiny,  giving  the  countenance  an  impress 
of  s  fter  and  more  human  care.  Some  pas- 
sion swept  his  lace  in  gusts,  now  faint-pale, 


now  gloomy-frowning  —  and  at  last,  the 
sweet  gleam  of  an  inward  smile  —  bu< 
summer-lightning,  that  smiles  all  ovei 
heaven,  lasts  longer  in  its  flash  than  did 
the  smile. 

"  Do  you  know,"  he  said,  \i\  a  tone  whose 
sweet  expression  had  outlived  the  smile, 
"  that  I  have  lately  been  drawn  curiously  to- 
wards that  star  ?  Have  you  ever  heard  how 
the  moon  draics  men  when  they  hapjjen  to 
sleep  full  under  its  light  —  particularly  when 
at  sea,  and  near  the  tropics  ?  It  jjroduces 
strange  convulsions,  contortions  of  the  coun- 
tenance, which  last  for  many  days.  Men 
must  then  have  an  affinity  with  the  moon. 
The  many  may  —  do  you  not  think  so  ?  for 
they  are  able  to  endure  its  influence,  though 
it  smites  them  with  superterrestrial  force. 
The  sun's  magnetism  is  too  fierce,  too  in- 
tense, too  celestial  to  affiect  men  of  itself; 
also  too  kindly,  for,  open-eyed  and  direct,  it 
would  consume  him  to  ashes.  So  it  per. 
vades  all  matter,  —  impervious  to  man,  af- 
fects him  through  matter.  And  also  reflects 
its  magnetism,  its  shadow  of  light  and  heat, 
in  the  Star  of  the  Million,  the  moon.  But, 
that  star,  it  draws  me  as  the  moon  draws 
the  million.  Other  men  feel  nothing  from 
the  stars  ;  I  always  shuddered  at  them  as  at 
death,  yet  longed  to  embrace  them  as  — 
something  as  awful  —  and  sweet  as  death 
may  be." 

He  spoke  with  long-drawn  breathings  and 
pauses,  that  seemed  to  make  gaps  in  her  be- 
ing. Only  one  thing  strong  as  Death,  and 
and  "  sweet  as  Death  may  be."  Her  heart 
echoed  —  then  its  pulses  froze,  waiting  for 
the  event  —  the  crisis,  which  now  had  surely 
come. 

"  Do  you  know  that  star  ?"  he  inquired, 
in  tones  of  interest  that  quelled  her  passion, 
as  a  north  wind  sharply  thwarts  a  summer 
noon,  and  bids  the  summer  momentarily  die 
in  winter.  Tears  had  rushed  warm  to  her 
eyes  before,  and  brimmed  them,  now  they 
eiung  icily  as  hail-drops  to  her  lashes. 
Cold  as  that  sunrise  speaking  statue  of  the 
desert,  she  stood  and  answered,  no  longer 
looking  towards  him,  but  at  the  star  — 
which  she  saw  not,  for  the  ice-drops  blinded 
it,  their  cold  pain  made  her  close  her  eyes 
—  or  was  it  fear  ?  Fortunately,  however, 
she  had  marked  the  star,  and  knew  its  name  ; 
all  princesses  are  taught  astronomy,  and  she 
had  learned  it,  to  prove  her  own  dislike. 

"  It  is  the  planet  Mercury.  I  am  a  little 
surprised  at  your  late  adoption  of  one  al- 
ready adopted,  at  least  by  name.  Then  in 
astrology,  it  gives  names  to  a  physiological 
temperament,  a  whole  host  in  one.  I  fancied 
j  your  star  was  new-discovered,  as  your  des- 
tiny is  newly  found.  Nor  knew  "l  that  it 
had  a  name  except  your  own." 

"  Nor  did  I  realize  my  right  to  call  it  mine 
till  lately.  In  the  dead"  ol  nndnight  the  ap- 
propriation blazed  upon  me.  It  was  a  simple 
coincidence   that  guided  my   choice.     You 


168 


RUMOR. 


know  the  meaning  and  the  use  of  Mercury 
in  heraldry,  in  royal  blazon  ?  " 

Alas  !  she  knew  it  tinted  the  blazon  of  her 
father's  ancestral  Kne.  Mercury,  the  purple. 
Black  word,  base  meaning.  He  could  not 
mean  it  so.  How  strange —  so  strange,  that 
it  seems  unlawful,  is  the  intuition  of  the 
strong.  Enthusiasm  is  compared  to  it,  igno- 
rance, or  frequent  blunder.  Porphyro  de- 
tected his  mistake,  perceived  his  precipita- 
tion, without  a  word  or  sign  of  hers,  for  she 
could  not  be  paler  than  she  had  been  before. 

"  You  are  unhappy  ?  "  he  questioned,  ten- 
derly, the  tenderness  quite  real,  and  longing 
to  melt  wholly  from  repression.  "  Ade- 
laida!"  Xever  had  he  so  named  her;  and 
in  that  tone,  delicious  to  her  virgin  heart  as 
the  nightingale's  note,  breathing  in  music 
the  rose's  name,  before  it  drops  upon  her 
breast. 

"  I  have  been  unhappy,"  she  faltered, 
while  the  ice-tears  dissolved,  and  dried  di- 
rectly, like  summer  rain  drops.  "  I  am  not 
unhappy  now,"  her  heart  added,  but  not  her 
tongue. 

"  And  why  are  you  unhappy  ?  Tell  me. 
The  good  should  be  always  happy  —  the 
heavenly-hearted  supremely  so." 

"  I  believe  you  know  all  my  reasons  —  all 
in  one  chief  cause  that  is  "  —  rallying  at  the 
commonplace  retort,  too  womanly  ever  to 
betray  herself  "  We  have  often  talked 
about  it,  perhaps  too  much  ;  discussion  only 
makes  one  discontented,  where  one  cannot 
mend.  But  it  does  me  good  to  hear  of  your 
amendments,  your  true  and  deserved  suc- 
cess. You,  at  least,  must  be  as  happy  as 
you  merit." 

"Is  the  old  cause  «ZZ?  "  he  asked.  For 
she  had  never  concealed  from  him  her  mis- 
ery as  a  daughter,  any  more  than  her  help- 
lessness as  sovereign  heu'ess.  No  morbid 
filial  sensitiveness  —  dead  virtue,  had  sealed 
her  tongue  from  repudiation  of  such  a  char- 
acter as  her  father's,  any  more  than  earth- 
bounded  fanaticism  led  her  to  use  "  vain 
re[)etitions  "  for  the  reclamation  of  his  life. 

"  Yes,  all ;  what  need  of  more  ?  "  she  re- 
plied, disappointment  dropping  its  dead 
weight  on  her  heart  again,  and  somethin 


like  disdain  shooting  a  wild  pang  through 

ill    he   had   to 

ask? 


her   passion.      "  Was   that   al 


"  All ;  ah  !  it  shall  be  some  day  forgotten, 
and  as  nothing."  Again  the  relenting 
tremble,  and  the  weight  was  lifted,  the  pas- 
sion-pang forgotten. 

"  I  had  something  to  say  to  you,  or  I  had 
not  asked  you  to  see  me  so  late,  in  sueh  a 
lonely  place.  I  have  to  blame  myself  for 
being  the  medium  of  placing  near  you  a 
person,  a  man,  not  strictly  to  be  trusted,  or 
rather  one  to  be  feared,  most  of  all  by  me, 
because /or  you." 

She  bound  her  breath,  she  counted  the 
inward  pulses  of  her  heart,  slow,  slower, 
suflbcating  with   susjiense.     He  waited  for 


her  to  speak.     He  might  as  well  ha^e  waited 
for  the  star  "  Mercury  "  to  fall. 

"  I  mean  —  forgive  me  for  alluding  to 
such  a  subject,  on  behalf  of  such  a  person. 
If  your  father  persists  in  retaining  that  Rod-  j 
omant  in  his  service,  may  I  ask  you,  entreat 
you,  to  banish  him  from  yours  ?  tacitly,  of 
conrse,  to  suspend  your  commands  for  his 
attendance  upon  you." 

"I  do  not  understand  —  I  cannot  im- 
agine.'^ 

"  Of  course  you  cannot !  "  said  Porphyro, 
in  an  accent  of  arrogance  singular  in  a 
people's  director  —  one  oi  themselves.  "Of 
course  you  cannot  understand  nor  imagine. 
It  is  not  your  place  to  stoop  —  to  breathe  so 
low." 

"  Explain  yourself,"  said  Adelaida,  w'ith 
the  imperial  air,  natural  and  subhme  when 
she  adopted  it,  the  very  queen  of  truth  and 
dutjr.  "  I  never  like  —  I  do  not  choose  to 
entertain  mysterious  hints  of,  or  against,  my 
friends,  or  my  servants." 
''  "  Is  he  your  friend  ?  " 

"  Assuredly  ;  I  thought  him  yours ;  he 
deserves  to  be  so,  even  more  than  mine.  If 
he  has  disappointed  you,  and  if  you  are 
justly  disappointed,  it  will  give  me  pain. 
But  I  cannot  affect  sympathy,  unless  I  feel 
it.  It  is  yours  to  enlighten  me  as  to  his 
error." 

"  I  would  not  vex  you,  but  for  justice. 
!  No  wonder  you  were  in  the  dark,  or  in  the 
light,  out  of  his  reach.  God  forbid  ;  the 
scandal ;  the  shame  ;  it  must  be  stopped ; 
it  must  be  crushed  ;  it  shall  be  annihilated, 
and  he,  too,  if  needful.  Forgive  my  open- 
ness ;  you  wLU  forgive  me  ;  you  ever  forgave 
me ;  you  ever  will.  That  man,  the  un- 
bought  slave,  the  scoundrel  overpaid  for 
trickery,  he  dares  to  look  at  you,  to  think 
of  you,  to  love  you,  I  was  about  to  say  — 
but  that  is  an  absurdity." 

She  reeled  a  few  steps  from  him,  her  head 
whirled  giddy,  her  heart  spun  rapid  with  a 
sudden  sickness,  both  of  body  and  soul ;  her 
modesty,  her  pride,  were  agonized.  Not  at 
the  assertion  —  she  could  have  smiled  at 
that  —  but  at  the  declaration  of  one  man's 
love  by  another  man.  Yet  the  sickness 
sprang  from  a  deeper,  wider  wound,  which 
opened  and  bled,  not  for  the  first  time,  but 
more  than  ever.  "  Oh,  that  he  would  de- 
clare his  own,  none  other's  ;  confess  his  lone- 
liness, and  let  me  heal  the  heart  which 
aches  in  solitude  ;  fill  ip  with  my  own  poor 
faith  the  soul  in  who-se  void  he  finds  no 
God."  But  this  cry  rose  to  heaven  in  si- 
lence ;  her  generosity  conquered  her  sor- 
row ;  she  stood  erect,  braced  beauteous  in 
its  golden  mail. 

"  It  grieves  me  that  you  should  say  so, 
because,  for  the  first  time,  I  cannot  agree 
with  you  ;  and  further,  I  am  certain  you  are 
mistaken  in  attributing  any  but  the  loftiest 
motives  to  that  person,  the  purest  of  life, 
and  most  noble-hearted  I  have  ever  known.* 


RUMOR. 


169 


This  was  no  pique ;  her  heart  whispered 
unheard,  "  We  women  do  not  love  men  al- 
ways the  most  noble-hearted,  nor  even  the 
purest  in  their  lives." 

"  If  it  were  even  true,  which  I  cannot  see 
is  any  business  of  yours  or  mine,"  she  went 
on  bravely,  "  I  do  not  understand  its  affect- 
ing you  to  anger,  particularly  now  you  are 
in  power.  It  is  not  like  you  to  oppress  the 
weak  or  the  strong,  made  perfect  in  endur- 
ance." 

"  Ah  !  you  ackncKvledge,  then,  it  concerns 
not  yourself'}  I  rest  easy  on  that  assurance ; 
I  trust  you,  and,  if  you  command  it,  him  also." 

"  Trust  me  ?  Then  he  calls  me  to  him- 
self, esteems  me  his.  Who  gave  him  the 
right  yet  ?  "  And  the  thought  and  question 
jarred  against  each  other.  "  How  long 
should  this  unnatural  suspension  last  ? 
Should  not  the  hour  end  it  ?  " 

"  I  am  sure,  servant  as  he  is  of  yours,  and, 
in  so  feeling  and  daring,  lower  than  the 
lowest  of  your  servants  —  self-degraded  — 
that  you  will  maintain  the  distance  between 
yourself  and  him,  unshortened  by  an  inch  — 
a  thought  —  a  smile." 

"  Needless  to  promise,  if  you  say  you  tniH 
me."  Not  proud  the  voice,  if  the  words  so 
sounded,  and,  as  she  spoke,  she  longed  more 
haughtily  to  control  her  tone,  without  suc- 
cess. "  I  am  sorry  you  thought  it  right  to 
interfere  —  sorry  for  him  —  for  myself  — 
for  you,  of  whom  —  all  three  of  us  —  such  a 
suspicion  is  unworthy.  One  friend  of  mine 
shall  never  suffer  in  my  esteem  at  the  insti- 
gation of  another,  unless  I  find  either  false." 

Porphyro  did  not  reply  —  whether  he  was 
offended,  hurt,  sorry,  or  satisfied,  she  could 
not  tell.  It  is  most  probable  he  was  quiet 
because  he  knew  not  what  to  say ;  having 
presumed  upon  his  own  power,  had  too  rap- 
idly exhausted  his  means.  It  certainly  \^ould 
not  have  be  in  easy  for  the  gracefullest  gal- 
lant to  have  slid  into  a  love-scene  directly 
after  this  nondescript  and  unconcluded  one. 
And  Porphyro,  if  neither  graceful  nor  gallant, 
was  of  tact  intact. 

"  I  am  most  imprudent,  and  have  been  ex- 
tremely, unpardonably  selfish,  to  keep  you 
here  so  long,  at  such  an  hour  —  you  must 
be  cold."  Porphyro's  having  lately  left  a 
latitude  where  an  hour  after  midnight  is 
always  chill,  might  excuse  the  inconsequence 
of  that  conclusion. 

"  I  am  particularly  warm  ;  but  as  I  am 
also  tired,  and  it  is  past  my  usual  hour,  I 
will  retire,  with  your  permission."  She 
waved  her  hand  to  him,  but  turned  away 
her  eyes,  and  walked  slowly,  carelessly  up 
the  glimmering  steep.  As  they  reached  the 
palace  gates  (for  he  had  followed  her,  of 
course)  she  bowed  again  to  him,  and,  call- 
ing her  page,  went  on  to  her  own  nightly 
home.  Bowing  to  him  that  last  time,  she 
could  not  resist  looking  at  him,  to  see  how 
he  looked  —  and  then  so  sad  was  the  fascina- 
tion of  his  face,  half-jealous,  half-reproach 
22 


ful — entirely  distressed;  that  though  she 
dared  not  stay  to  speak  to  him  lest  it  should 
seem  she  desired  him  to  speak ;  yet  when 
she  threw  herself  on  the  couch  in  her  con- 
vent-chamber, she  upbraided  herself  wildly, 
bitterly,  for  perhaps  having  left  him  too 
soon — perhaps  having  dashed  her  destiny 
from  her  own  embrace  ;  called  on  herself  as 
harsh,  ungrateful,  cruel,  tiU  her  anguish  was 
deadened  to  remorse. 

There  is  a  sorrow  of  sorrows,  suffered  by 
so  few,  that  for  the  many  its  existence  is  a 
fable.  The  master-poet  who  told  that  '•  re- 
membering happier  things "  is  sorrow's 
"  crown,"  surely  guessed  not ;  happy  for  him 
if  he  learned  not  since,  that  the  soul  and 
essence,  if  not  the  outward  thorn-crown,  of 
great  woe,  is  to  behold,  without  being  able 
to  console  or  lessen,  the  suffering  of  the  best 
beloved.  If  the  one  and  only  beloved  on 
earth,  then  deeper,  firmer,  are  the  thorn 
points  planted  in  the  spirit.  Love's  roses, 
the  delicious  thoughts,  the  lovely  fancies 
that  spring  from  the  consciousness  that  the 
beloved  is  alive  on  earth ;  those  paradise- 
blooms  may  veil  fi-om  vision  the  piercing 
ecstasies  of  grief,  but  more  sharp-toned  than 
any  pleasure,  that  pain  distils  in  the  dark- 
ness on  the  being.  Exquisite  is  the  pain, 
exquisite  as  the  joys  of  divinely-inspired 
love,  of  this  as  divinely-inspired  sorrow,  and 
it  has  more  sympathy  with  heaven  ;  for  One 
who  of  old  gave  pattern  to  all  both  for  love  > 
and  sorrow,  wore  the  thorns  in  his  heart  loilg 
before  they  pressed  his  brow ;  and  for  his 
thorns  no  roses  blossomed  in  the  wilderness. 

It  may  be  justly  wondered  how  a  trouble 
so  prodigious  and  possessing  was  to  fall  on 
Rodomant.  For  surely  after  Porphyro's 
warning,  lover-like  charge,  delivered  with 
almost  spousal  authority,  Rodomant  had  no 
chance  of  discovering  whether  the  princess 
was  sad  or  gay,  betrothed,  or  from  her  hopes 
divided  more  than  ever.  Of  course,  the 
master  of  her  heart  was  obeyed  with  the  im- 
plicit sweetness  of  a  pliant  wife.  Of  course 
she  went  beyond  the  spirit,  to  the  extremest 
letter  of  his  demand,  and  rigidly  excluded 
Rodomant  from  her  presence,  even  denying 
him  a  farew-ell  glimpse  !  Not  at  all ;  prov- 
ing at  once  how  illogical  is  the  rule  of  love, 
and  how  irrational  must  passion  be,  where 
most  moderate  expectations  and  requests 
are  not  inevitably  accomplished.  Truly  the 
man  who  could  cope  with  humanity  on  the 
largest  scale  of  generalization,  who  had  suc- 
cessfully mastered,  and  illustrated  in  his  own 
person  the  theory  of  popular  governance, 
was  unable  to  crush  t!ie  heart-justice  of  a 
single-woman,  as  fragile  as  a  fioweret  by  a 
glacier,  and  shaken  like  a  reed  herself  in  the 
tempest  of  her  own  emotion.  Had  Ade- 
laida  been  in  his  arms,  and  a  fly  drowning 
in  her  sight,  she  would  have  left  his  embrace 
to  stretch  forth  a  finger ;  the  instinct  of 
benevolence  was  stronger  in  her  than  love, 
how  strong  then !  —  as  it  should  be  ui  the 


170 


RUMOR. 


woman  boin  not  only  to  be  a  wife,  but  to 
become  a  mother. 

Had  Porphyro  left  the  subject  of  Rodo- 
mant  alone,  which,  in  his  set  sphere  of 
knowledge,  he  was  too  ignorant  to  know,  he 
might  have  done  quite  safely  —  at  least  for 
the  time  he  dreaded  ;  the  chances  were  that 
she  herself  would  have  restricted,  if  not 
avoided,  interviews  with  him,  as  it  is  natural 
for  a  woman  whose  love  sorrow  suddenly 
impregnates,  to  shrink  from  mental  contact 
with  men  and  women  —  rather  more  from 
men  ;  and  certainly  most  of  all  from  a  man 
who  had  taken  occasion  —  too  far  out  of 
precedent  to  be  termed  a  liberty  —  to  read 
her  heart  in  silence,  and  comment  upon  its 
impressions  aloud. 

Truly  she  shrank  from  men,  from  women, 
from  the  light ;  from  God's  eye,  to  which  so 
pure  a  soul  looked  naturally  upwards  all 
hours  of  the  day,  and  sleepless  hours  of  the 
night.  When  Porphyro  had  actually  gone, 
bound  to  her  no  more  than  when  he  came, 
she  was  stunned  for  hours,  therefore  — 
happy  for  her  in  surrounding  circumstances 
too  quiet  to  reveal  her  torture  to  the  most 
pitilessly  curious  eyes.  But  when  came  the 
reaction  of  the  disaster,  which  befell  so  true 
and  spotless  a  nature,  with  a  sense  of  shame 
like  crime  —  far  blacker,  bitterer  than  pride ; 
she  felt  a  strange  and  solitary  yearning  for 
Rodomant's  society  —  such  a  sick  desire  as 
some  persons  experience  in  critical  illness 
for  some  fruit  or  cate  unprocurable  at  the 
place  or  season  —  perhaps  it  may  be  only 
for  a  draught  of  water  from  some  spring, 
leagues  away.  It  may  be  said  that  nothing 
could  be  easier  than  for  the  princess  to 
gratify  this  whim  of  a  wounded  spirit  —  but 
yet  it  was  simply  impossible,  because  she 
chose  not  to  send  for  him  —  she  absolutely 
could  not.  And  actually  she  never  would 
have  had  courage  to  send  for  him  again,  had 
she  not  met  him  through  the  instrumentality 
of  another  —  or  by  his  own  design. 

For  many  days  Rodomant  assiduously  at- 
tended the  prince,  dwarfing  his  powers  for 
the  accomplishment  of  caprices,  and  min- 
istering to  the  only  sense  left  unimpaired  in 
that  person  of  royalty.  He  never  expected 
to  see,  nor  saw,  the  princess  with  her  father 
after  Porphyro's  departure,  any  more  than 
before  his  visit.  Least  of  all  persons,  could 
Adelaida  have  faced  her  father  at  that  time. 
Had  he  guessed  and  seen  her  suffering,  she 
must  straightway  have  destroyed  herself — 
no  exaggerated  assertion  this.  The  shame 
—  albeit  ideal  shame,  which  would  have 
filled  her  veins  then,  and  bewildered  very 
consciousness,  would  have  driven  her  to  th;it 
end  —  oblivion  of  shame,  if  not  of  sorrow  — 
which  draws  to  its  dead  crisis  so  many 
women,  soul-darkened  with  actual  shame. 
So  unused  was  her  father  to  her  company, 
so  careless  of  her  welfare,  so  determinately 
he  thrust  from  him  (into  that  dark  place  of 
his  which  held  many  galleries  of  anatomic 


terror)  the  idea  of  her  as  his  natural  suc- 
cessor ;  that  she  was  safe  in  hrr  certainty 
that  he  would  never  miss  nor  ask  for  her 
He  saw  her  so  seldom  except  in  public, 
when  her  beauty  served  in  part  for  his  own 
blazon  —  that  to  have  her  near  him  was  an 
exceptional  case  ;  yet  it  was  against  the  law 
of  her  Hfe  to  subscribe  openly  to  approbation 
or  reprobation  of  his  lawless  life  :  a  medium 
course  which  is  the  only  one  left  to  a  pure- 
minded  and  duteous  daughter,  whom  either 
of  her  parents  insults  as  a  woman,  by  cn- 
sample. 

For  the  rest,  the  prince  meant  her  to 
marry  Prophyro,  as  much  as  Porphyro 
meant  to  marry  her ;  but  that  had  in  "the 
prince's  esteem  no  meaning  that  verged  on 
love.  Indeed,  he  thought  Adelaida  as  pas- 
sionlessly  cold,  as  he  considered  her  beauty 
monotonous  and  marmorean.  Even  he  mis- 
took Porphyro's  present  design  of  pressnig 
his  love  so  lightly ;  for  Porphyro  held  fast 
the  passive  claim,  because  so  certain  of  it 

—  more  certain  than  man  of  woman  has 
ever  the  right  to  be,  while  unaffianced.  The 
vanity  of  the  fairest  woman  is  a  trifle  to  the 
vanity  of  such  a  man.  However,  the  prince 
thought  Porphyro  both  proud   and  modest 

—  that  he  refrained  from  certain  motives 
which  he  had  not  failed  to  unfold  to  the 
prince  —  how  carefully  soever  he  had  con- 
cealed them  from  his  daughter. 

One  day  Romana  surprised  Rodomant 
with  a  call,  for  Romana  lodged  out  of  i]v 
palace  precinct,  after  his  patron's  departure. 
He  had  quite  forgotten  his  anger,  whose 
subsidence  was  just  that  of  wrath  in  all  men 
of  his  temperament,  as  forgiving  as  they  are 
sensitive.  Friendship,  however,  had  with- 
ered in  the  seed,  not  because  of  the  anger, 
but  between  him  and  Rodomant  it  could  not 
have  grown  up.  Cordial  acquaintance,  in 
most  cases  more  agreeable  than  enforced 
familiarity,  remained  to  them,  and  as  Rodo- 
mant had  not  seen  Romana  since  the  flying 
angry  hour,  he  was  curious  at  the  same  time 
that  he  was  gratified. 

"  I  am  come  to  you  in  despair,"  said  Ro- 
mana, dashing  himself  into  a  seat,  pink- 
faced,  and  semi-furious.  "  In  despair,  I 
shall  never  finish  her,  I  cannot  begin  her  (I 
have  destroyed  her  twice),  and  if  I  can't  be- 
gin, how  end  ?  There  was  no  color  to  go 
from  at  first,  and  now  there  is  nc  expres- 
sion. Out  of  a  coffin  no  one  ever  looked  so 
lifeless.  Except  for  the  genius  of  death, 
she  is  no  subject  at  all,  and  done  in  marbli;, 
she  would  look,  not  only  death-like  but  dead, 
else  I  would  try  my  hand  at  a  model,  and 
paint  from  that.  1  am  harassed  ;  I  have 
no  sleep  ;  and  all  my  glorious  color-dreams 
are  gone  to  the  darkness,  the  devil's  own 
place.  It  is  not  that  I  want  to  be  paid ;  in 
fact  she  has  so  plagued  me,  that  if  I  ever 
do  get  through  it,  I  will  not  take  from  Por- 
phyro a  stiver.  But  my  fame,  my  name,  my 
reputation    akeady   tampered  with  ;    what 


RUMOR. 


171 


would  be  said  if  I  failed?  for,  insignificant 
as  she  is  as  woman,  being  a  princess,  per- 
force the  popular  tongue  would  rattle. 
There  is  but  one  hope  for  me,  and  I  place  it 
in  you.  If  any  thing  can  conquer  her  mo- 
notony, it  is  your  craft ;  you  must  come  and 
amuse  her  with  playing,  while  she  sits." 

"Did  she  order  me?"  asked  Rodomant, 
eagerly,  at  which  Romana  laughed. 

"  Rigid  propriety,  what  armor  for  you. 
It  sits  on  you  as  uncanny  as  the  skeleton 
outside  the  man  in  '  Quarle's  emblems,'  an 
old  religious  book.  No,  she  did  not  order, 
but  I  asked  her  if  she  would  allow  it,  and 
she  instantly,  of  course,  graciously,  assented. 
Is  not  her  assent  command  ?  O  man,  in 
the  '  body '  of  this  death,  how  worldly  art 
thou  ! " 

"  Certainly,  assent  is  command,"  said 
Rodomant  drily,  for  he  grudged  unnecessary 
allusion  to  the  subject. 

So  Rodomant,  with  pulses  filled  with  fire, 
calm-bound  as  if  with  ice,  by  his  will,  to 
whose  force  iron  were  a  non-resistant,  went 
straightway  to  Romana's  studio.     This  was 


and  enforced  demand  upon  vitality  of  any 
violent  agitation  fosters  and  quickens  ;;o  its 
crisis.  Nor  knew  he  the  counterfeit  if  all 
diseases,  which  renders  even  physical  suffer- 
ing the  more  intense  and  dread,  because  the 
vitality  unimjiaired  gives  equal  strength  for 
extra  suffering.  So  Rodomant  again  thought 
—  this  time  felt  certain  —  she  wan  going  to 
die.  This  time,  too,  the  energy  of  denial 
and  repudiation  SM'elled  not  in  him  to  choke 
the  fear.  It  was  fixed  in  a  desperate  de- 
spair. It  must  be — then  let  the  sacrifice 
hasten  to  completion ;  let  the  pure  fires  close 
around  the  virgin  life  at  once,  and  wing  the 
spirit  for  Heaven,  to  its  reward.  Only  let  it 
be  noip,  before  he,  the  destroyer,  had  per- 
jured his  soul  by  tasting  the  delights  of 
possession  vnmeriied.  It  Avas  like  the  old 
Hebrew  story  of  the  mother  who  willed  her 
own  child  to  live,  and  gave  it  up  to  false 
motherhood  of  another,  to  spare  its  life,  re- 
versed. He  would  have  this  treasure  stolen 
by  death  before  it  was  ravished  by  life.  Vir- 
ginius-like,  he  could  himself  that  hour  have 
slain   her    from    his    sight,   to   destroy   the 


a  deserted  pavilion  in  the  gardens,  which  i  power  of  earthly  love  upon  her. 
Porphyro  had  suggested  to  the  princess  I  This  fine  frame  of  passion's  least  tempo- 
would  serve  as  such  ;  and  it  was  for  Por-  ral  (though  necessarily  temporary)  halluci- 
phyro  but  to  suggest  —  in  a  few  hours  its  i  nation,  might  have  fleeted  faster  than  it  did, 
])reparation  was  completed.     The  soft  fres-  j  had  he  known   that  during  all  the  previous 


coes  of  the  interior,  wholly  unstained  by 
that  climate,  were  left  to  adorn  the  walls  ; 
the  glass  dome  was  cleansed,  and  from  it,  us 
from  a  semi-sphere  of  crystal,  poured  down 
the  artist's  light.  Around,  a  few  choice 
statues,  fragments,  models,  and  beauteous 
pictures,  all  from  the  princess's  own  store, 
were  placed,  and  her  own  property  was  the 
superb  easel  of  sandal-wood,  framed  in 
gold,  and  inlaid  thick  with  minute  pictures 
on  enamelled  round  medallions — the  en- 
amel green.  At  the  proper  distance,  too, 
were  the  legitimate  raised  chair,  cloth- 
stained  dais,  and  inevitable  screen,  which 
last,  in  this  case,  stretched  all  across  the 
studio,  dividing  it  into  uaiequal  halves.  She 
was  abeudy  seated,  this  side  of  the  screen 
to  Rodomant,  as  he  entered  by  one  of  equi- 
distant doors,  with  grass-green  blinds  before 
them.  He  did  not  look  at  her  the  least,  but 
cast  one  glance  all  round  the  half  of  the 
apartment  he  could  scrutinize 


What 
your  highness  ?  for  I   see  no  instrument," 
he  inquired  in  a  comic  tone,  he  could  not 
have  resisted  then  employing. 

"  My  ])iano  is  behind  the  screen,"  she 
answered  loftily  ;  and  as  he  passed  her  side- 
ways to  attain  the  edge  of  the  screen  near 
him,  he  saw,  as  one  sees  a  white  flower  smite 
the  vision  that  sought  it  not,  amidst  the 
color-blossoms  of  the  garden,  her  pale  face 
altered  fearfully.  He  had  not  learned  the 
truth  —  a  truth  few  know,  that  no  one  dies 
of  love,  who  carries  not  in  him  or  her  the 
germ  of  some  disease,  in  itself  winged 
direct  for  death,  and  which  the  unnatural 


(and  fruitless)  sittings,  after  Porphyro's  de- 
parture, Adelaida  had  invariably  ordered 
two  of  her  ladies,  a  matron  and  a  maid,  the 
one  to  read  aloud,  the  other  to  embroider, 
in  a  corner  of  the  studio  ;  and  that  tliis  day 
slie  had  released  thfim,  in  consideration  of 
Rodom ant's  presence.  Such  a  token  of  con- 
fidence in  his  person  would  not  only  have 
melted  the  death-apotheosis,  but  have  "further 
roused  hopes  unjustifiable,  indomitable  — 
but  lately  held  down  and  numbed. 

Not  knowing  she  so  honored  him,  his 
mood  led  him  to  torture  himself  ruthlessly, 
and  also  to  excite  her  to  a  sense  of  herself, 
as  heroine  of  the  divine  tragedy  he  had 
arranged  in  his  own  anticipation.  It  was 
very  seldom  he  sang,  even  to  himself,  and 
he  had  never  in  his'  life  done  so  to  a  wo- 
man except  Lady  Delucy.  His  extraor- 
dinary voice,  which,  instead  of  compass, 
possessed  an  almost  blasting  power,  and 
tead  of  sweetness,  a  shrill  clarity  which 


I  to  play  on,  may  it  please*  made  words  of  passion  awfully  articulate, 
'  as  it  lent  to  those  of  love  a  strenuous 
anguish  of  application.  This  voice  the 
princess  had  never  heard,  and  guessed  it 
no  more  than  she  saw  or  imagined  his 
gifts  of  personal  fascination,  which  he  dex- 
terously and  honorably  concealed,  and  which 
were  as  far  more  irresistible  than  Porphyro's 
as  spiritual  than  merely  animal  magnetism. 

"Princess,"  he  exclaimed,  tardily  from 
behind  the  screen,  "I  wrote  last  night  a 
song,  which  I  humbly  hope  will  gratify  your 
highness  j  and  which,  with  your  permission, 
I  will  give  you." 

"Its  name,  pray?"  she" asked  with  inter* 


172 


RUMOK. 


est,  curiously  contiasting  with  the  languor 
of  her  looK  and  colorlessness. 

"  A  swan's  song  —  it  is  dying  ;  you  know 
the  legend." 

"  Pity  it  is  not  true  ;  think  you  not  so, 
Mr.  Romana  ?  A  fine  subject  for  your 
brush  ! " 

"  A  fine  subject,  indeed,  for  his  stick," 
grumbled  Rodomant  to  himself,  "  fancy  the 
material  he  would  lump  it  with.  The  chis- 
elling of  the  feathers  in  chalk  lustre,  the 
sedges  like  a  milkmaid's  green  hat  ribbon, 
the  shnbs  on  that  side  of  the  brook  as  star- 
ingly  down  upon  one  as  the  shrubs  on  this 
side.     Don't  I  know  ?  " 

"  Your  highness  compliments  me  too 
highly."  broke  in  Romana,  and  scattered  his 
pre-criticism.  "  The  subject  is  scarce  suited 
for  a  picture.  If  one  drew  the  swan,  how 
should  one  re])resent  the  ])roper  and  natural 
development  of  the  muscles  of  the  throat  ? 
Quite  different  in  the  case  of  a  bird,  pro- 
vided by  nature  only  with  a  cry  for  purposes 
of  necessity,  and  a  song-bird  in  the  act  of 
singing,  wherein  the  muscles  must  be 
brought  into  visible  and  actual  play.  In 
short,  as  the  swan's  song  is  a  fable,  he  can- 
not be  seen  to  sing,  therefore  must  not  be  so 
painted,  for  he  must  not  be  imagined  " 

"  Oh,"  sighed  Adclaida,  to  her  own  heart; 
"does  Porphyro  hold  those  art-tenets?  hor- 
rible ! "  and  the  unpleasant  impression  was 
deepened  by  the  suggestive  comic  tone  be- 
hind the  screen. 

"  Mine  is  a  she-swan.  May  she  therefore 
bemoan  herself?  For  I  declare  truly,  that 
though  she  cannot  be  '  seen  to  sing,'  she  can 
be  heard." 

Romana  was  shocked  at  this  direct  breach 
of  court-breeding,  and  of  course  busily  oc- 
cupied himself,  that  he  might  be  seen  to 
keep  aloof  himself  from  such  a  charge  — 
did  not  go  on  painting,  because  he  had  not 
begun  —  besides  the  princes'^  had  fidgeted 
out  of  her  attitude  :  but  shifted  his  canvas, 
poked  about  with  his  brushes,  mixed  his 
colors  till  his  palette  was  a  chaos  of  the 
rainbow,  and  achieved  such  like  tricks  of 
the  not  perfectly  self-possessed. 

"  Let  us  hear  her,  by  all  means,"  said 
Adelaida,  and  settled  in  her  attitude  again  ; 
Romana  fumbled  for  a  brush,  and  took  a 
long  preliminary  gaze  —  then  painted. 

And  Rodomant  sang  these  words,  weeds 
of  his  own  fancy,  which,  gathered  for  his 
particular  charm,  he  prized  as  sacred  "  herb 
of  grace,"  beyond  any  flowers  of  anoth- 
er's imagination,  and  which  he  had  even 
originally  /a?ic?!e(^  such  as  they  were,  not  in 
German,  but  in  the  tongue  of  Belvidere  — 
richest  and  rarest  tone  stricken  from  the 
.iEolian  harp  of  language  by  the  windlike 
and  wordless  voice,  Necessity  — which  voice 
seems,  in  the  case  of  that  tongue,  to  have 
limited  necessity  to  passion.  As  for  the 
aiusic  which  bore  the  words  along  to  their 
jfoal  of  meaning,  it  was  simple  of  melody, 


I  with  accom])anIme!it  of  lorg  aid  surge-like 
chords,  the  weltering  calmness  of  the  brim- 
ming, but  not  stagnant,  stream,  drawing 
slowly,  surely  onwards,  to-W(.rds  the  sea. 

Take  me,  oh  take  me,  while  my  life  is  g^Iory, 

Ere  I  be  weary,  take  me  to  thy  rest,— 

Kre  love  be  feeble,  or  my  locks  be  hoary, 
E'ea  in  my  beauty  take  me  to  be  blest 

Let  me  be  with  Thee,  while  my  young  heart  pineth 
For  all  love,  nil  Heaven  ;  with' its  first  pure  fire, 

Through  this  dim  mortal  mine  immortal  shiuetli. 
Yearns  for  all  wisdom,  with  a  dread  desire. 

Do  I  not  seek  Thee  ?    Yea,  my  youth  is  wasting 
In  aspiration,  struggling  Thine  to  be, 

Seems  it  in  longing  all  my  heart  is  hasting 
To  Heaven  before  me,  — now  is  one  with  Thee! 

Yea,  at  the  midnight,  when  the  dark  earth  sleepeth. 
Watch  I  with  Thy  starlight,  till  I  seem  a  star 

'Lone  amidst  thousands  —  then  my  mortal  weepeth, 
Far  from  Thy  starlight  —  from  Thyself  how  far ! 

Young  is  my  spirit — crowned  with  dewy  roses  — 
Fresh  is  my  life  as  lilies  freshly  blown. 

Love  for  its  sweetness  and  its  hope  reposes 
On  Thee,  Eternal  — on  Thy  smile  alone. 

Soothes  not  Thy  love  my  first,  last  music?  woven 
Wildly  on  the  waters,  shivering  in  tlieir  reeds? 

Like  searching  fire  the  skies  its  voice  hath  cloven, 
Burning  to  touch  the  altar4ight  it  feeds. 

Dying,  now  dying,  it  touches,  and  I  hear  Thee 
Wooing  in  darkness,  whence  the  glory  came, 

Calling,  Beloved,  in  hitter  breeze  to  cheer  me. 
Blown  from  the  deep  which  death  I  fondly  name. 

At  the  end  of  the  first  verse  the  princess, 
astonished,  held  her  breath  to  listen ;  sat 
like  a  study  of  calm.  At  the  end  of  the 
second  she  shuddered,  rigidly  repressed 
herself,  and  hung  on  the  remaining  words ; 
but  though  stirless  till  the  end  as  a  marble 
phantom  of  herself,  she  changed  in  counte- 
nance ;  a  void  inexpression  crept  over  it, 
white  as  the  veil  unperceived  Death  drops 
on  the  fairest  foces !  At  last,  from  inex- 
pression, the  expression  altered,  and  settled 
finally  into  a  cold  unmeaning  terror,  a  scared 
look  in  the  sweet  blue  eyes  —  the  jnind 
seemed  banished  from  the  countenance. 
Romana  was  naturally  in  despair,  lost  his 
court  self-command  for  a  moment,  — 

"  For  pity,"  he  cried,  not  said,  "  play 
something  joyous,  something  sprightlier,  at 
least  —  you  are  freezing  her  highness.  And 
even  I  cannot  get  on  ;  my  brush  is  as  if  it 
had  been  dipped  in  ice  —  my  wrist  is 
cramped." 

"  Play  something,  dear,  yes  !  "  said  Rodo- 
mant, quite  secure  of  his  effect  upon  her. 
And  reckless  indeed  were  the  succeeding 
aberrations ;  they  can  be  named  nothing 
correcter,  of  his  daring  hands,  his  far  more 
daring  intellect.  Strong  and  wild  as  a  hur- 
ricane out  at  sea  ;  or  as  a  mind  projjhesying 
its  own  madness  in  the  last  sane  and  insane- 
verging  passion.  To  the  princess,  however, 
whose  idea  he  had  succeeded  in  fettering,  it 
was  all  yet  of  the  swan's  song,  (as  unlike 
song  of  swan,  as  poetry  or  song  could  be.) 
To  her,  that  great  confusion  of  whelming 
harmony  was  the  deep  to  which  the  swaa 
had    di-ifted;    the    river-banks    with    theil 


RUMOR. 


freshly  earth-sprung  rushes,  their  gushes 
of  Avild-flower  scent,  their  reminiscences  of 
humanity  in  ?choes  from  the  shore  —  all 
past,  all  lost;  the  very  mid-sea  drenching 
surf  shutting  out  its  feeble  death-M-ail  from 
its  yearning  ears ;  and  not  the  dead-white 
surf  alone,  but  the  shrieks  of  the  di  owning, 
the  groans  of  the  crushed  between  embracing 
icebergs,  from  pole  to  pole  ;  the  last  dry 
gasps  of  those  who  die  for  water  on  the  salt 
and  burning  waters  at  the  thirsty  Line. 
Then,  as  the  strains  swept  again  to  the 
simple  but  torturing  theme,  she  fell  back 
upon  herself  and  thought  of  herself  delib- 
erately and  horribly,  as  of  another  person 
dead ;  over  whose  death,  and  death's  cause, 
she  lamented  too  profoundly  to  melt  in 
tears ;  too  proudly  to  define  lament  in  lan- 
guage. Suddenly,  there  was  silence,  and  it 
stunned  her  like  a  sudden  and  altered  shock 
of  sound — behind  the  screen.  Then  Romana. 
flushed  with  wrathful  distress,  and  sadly 
worried  between  his  subject  and  her  slave, 
exclaimed,  — 

"  Your  highness  is  so  wonderfully  good 
and  patient,  that  I  hesitate  not  to  request 
that  for  the  future  the  sittings  should  be 
continued  as  they  were  held  before."  And 
his  brush,  which  he  had  grasped  too  tena- 
ciously in  revenge  for  his  courtly  restraint, 
rolled  out  of  his  fingers.  How  she  wished 
that  Rodomant  would  say  something  to  help 
her,  —  no  such  thing." 

"  As  you  please  ;  but  unless  you  are  tired, 
you  shall  not  be  disappointed  of  a  sitting 
to-day.  I  will  do  better  this  time ;  music  is 
too  exciting,  after  all,  or  excites  me  too 
much."  She  rang  a  hand-bell,  and  a  page 
entered  ;  him  she  sent  to  summon  her  ladies 
as  before.  "  We  will  have  no  more  music, 
indeed,"  she  said,  in  a  tone  she  meant  to 
carry  impression  of  her  OAvn  vexed  anger  to 
Rodomant,  or  perhaps  to  ascertain  whether 
he  was  still  there.  x\s  he  did  not  reply,  nor 
make  the  sHghtest  sound,  she  supposed  him 
to  have  retreated  through  the  door  at  the 
side  of  his  screen,  whose  silken  openings 
•would  betray  no  person's  exit.  Meantime 
he  sat  on  quietly,  heard  the  ladies  come  in, 
and  the  reading  of  a  book  commence,  which, 
though  a  tearing  fiction  of  the  foremost 
class  and  fashion,  was  as  interesting  to  him 
(and  as  he  believed  to  her)  as  a  work  on 
cosmogony  or  a  treatise  on  cookery. 

The  silting  was  now  over,  Romana  well 
pleased,  for  she  had  made  one  of  those 
supernatural  efforts  in  which  proud  women 
infallibly  succeed  ;  she  dismissed  him  to  his 
afteruDon  repose,  —  the  ladies  also.  Ro- 
mana thought  Rodomant  had  gone  ;  the 
ladies  knew  not  he  had  been  there ;  the 
princess,  of  course,  was  certain  of  his  de- 
parture, or  she  would  never  have  said  to 
Romana,  whose  healed  vanity  flushed  joy 
thereat,  "  I  wish  to  look  at  your  pictures ; 
the  Director  told  me  of  them.  May  I  ex- 
amine that  portfolio  ?  " 


"  Too  deejiiy  honored,  your  highness  ;' 
they  are  onmspiiit^  and  corner  pieces; 
canvasser  are.,  mifortunately  too  huge-' tffl 
strew  so  fairy-li^vi.  building  as  is  this  one." 
And  he  lifted  a  sufficiently  huge  case  on  to 
the  easel-ridge,  did  not  dtiiaHaW  imloose  the 
strings,  and  noiselessly  shot  out  of  the  par- 
tition. 

All  was  stillness  in  the  studio  then ;  the 
sun  burned  hotly  on  the  roof,  and  the  door- 
draperies  hung  calm  as  folds  in  malachite. 
She  listened,  and  felt  uneasy  at  the  lack  of 
sound,  in  the  midst  of  which  a  ghost  would 
have  seemed  as  natural  an  apparition  as  in 
the  noon  of  darkness.  Even  a  sigh  of  her 
own  startled  her,  however,  when  it  Avas  emit- 
ted, then  forcibly  repressed.  Strange  that 
in  solitude,  she  should  ])e  afraid  to  sigh. 
At  length  she  touched  the  ribbons  of  the 
portfolio  ;  nervously  and  uncertainly  placed 
by  Romana  on  the  supporting  ridge,  it  lost 
balance  instantly,  and  crashed  on  the  mosaic 
floor  —  a  great  crash,  for  it  was  Romana's 
"  specimen,"  not  "  incident "  book.  And 
straightway  Avith  the  crash,  then  appeared 
from  the  side  of  the  screen,  the  calm,  sturdy 
form  and  unimpressioned  face  of  Rodomant. 
Quiet  as  a  servant,  and  with  the  exact 
pro|)er  polish  of  non-interest,  he  advanced, 
and  like  a  menial  automaton,  gathered  up 
the  stray  certificates  of  fame,  for  they  were 
scattered  f;\r  and  near,  replaced  them  in  the 
portfolio,  and  this  upon  the  easel,  firmly  as 
menial  fingers  should.  But,  as  it  seemed, 
on  second  thoughts,  he  removed  the  port- 
folio again,  and  put  it  on  the  firm  table 
Romana  had  used  for  his  box,  then  wheeled 
the  table  on  its  velvet-easy  castors,  to  the 
princess's  side,  and  standing  behind  the  table, 
was  evidently  aliout  to  remain  there,  like  a 
servant,  in  case  she  should  further  need  him. 

In  the  sea  of  her  emotions  tossed  so  high, 
she  caught  at  his  presence  like  a  spar  of 
drift-wood,  evidently  feared  his  departure. 

"  Do  not  go,"  she  said,  desperately  ;  "  I 
have  not  seen  you  so  long  ;  have  you  been 
ill  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  I  am  never  ill,  your  highness ; 
but  I  was  not  sent  for,  and  without  such 
sign  of  favor,  I  had  no  right  to  appear, 
having  already  appeared  too  often." 

"  I  believe  I  have  been  ill  myself,"  she 
said,  still  desperately,  "  if  you  were  not  ; 
the  heats  are  great  this  year.  I  am,  how- 
ever, perfectly  well  now,  and  therefore  I  do 
not  understand  —  Oh,  that  you  would  not 
tax  my  patience  as  you  do  !  What  was  the 
meaning  of  your  singing  that  song  to  me  ? 
very  inferior  to  any  other  of  your  songs  ; 
but  what  was  the  meaniny^  " 

"  So  obvious  and  simple,  that  on  my  life 
I  know  not  how  to  explain  it." 

"  No  swan's  song,  certainly,"  she  said,  in 
a  lowered,  helpless  voice.  Then  implor- 
ingly, still  helplessly,  "  What  makes  you 
think  I  am  going  to  die  ?  that  /  ought  to 
think  so  ?     You  would  not  say  so,  or  imply 


174 


KUMOR 


It,  if  j^ou  did  not  knoAV  it.  Alas,  for  me  !  " 
and  she  cast  her  eyes  round  at  the  walls,  as 
though  they  prisoned  her,  and  she  was 
thence  to  be  led  forth  for  execution.  "  Alas  ! 
for  with  your  genius  and  your  integrity,  you 
must  then  have  the  second  sight,  the  gift  of 
prophecy  which  is  given  to  so  few,  in  those 
few  unerring.  Yet,  how  cruel  of  you  to  tell 
me  so  !  I  might  at  least  have  not  felt  it  till 
it  came,  then  had  my  hopes  lasted  until  my 
hour.  And  now  you  tear  them  from  me, 
ungrateful  as  you  are !  Did  I  ever  rend 
your  peace  of  mind  out  of  your  bosom? 
did  I  ever  kill  you  in  anticipation?  " 

Ilodomant's  hallucination  dropped  from 
him,  less  like  a  mist  than  as  a  husk,  which 
left  him  spirit-bare  and  shivering  in  the  face 
of  his  insane  selfishness,  his  blind  and  ruth- 
less cruelty.  He  fell  low  on  trembling 
knees,  as  rapidly  arose,  for  near  enough, 
and  looking  upwards  as  he  knelt,  he  could 
detect  the  drops  on  her  brow,  delicate  as 
beads  of  dew  in  the  lily's  bosom,  and  the 
shadow  of  death,  which  the  pure  soul  ever 
meets  and  conquers  before  the  substance, 
over  her  whole  resigned  fiice  and  drooping 
figure. 

"  Great  heaven !  God  is  my  witness,  my 
meaning  was  not  that,  at  least  not  so.  I 
allowed  my  own  evil  imagination  to  outrage 
my  feelings,  in  revenge  of  them,  I  suppose. 
It  was  wicked,  audacious,  any  thing  but 
what  you  think  it !  I  was  resolved  to  exor- 
cise the  hideous  travesty  of  an  idea,  held  by 
Romana,  that  your  highness  was  like  a  Ma- 
donna. I  thought,  if  I  can  but  give  that 
commonplace  a  tragic  burst,  all  will  be  well, 
so  far  as  that  the  fat  Catholic  mother  (Eve 
second),  of  all  living,  will  be  flung  out  of 
the  possible  scale.  Pardon,  pardon,  O  good 
and  great  princess  !  " 

"  It  is  a  disgraceful  weakness  in  me,"  she 
answered,  still  trembling,  but  no  longer  with 
the  quake  of  terror  —  the  Strong  so  near 
her  hud  quieted  that.  "  I  ought  to  be  glad, 
were  I  to  die.  And  God  knows  I  should  be 
thankful  —  if  no  one  knew  it ;  if  I  could  die 
a  nameless  and  unheeded  alien  in  this  land, 
without  the  trouble  of  leaving  it,  for  I  am 
past  that  —  I  think.  If  I  might  drop  into 
the  gi'ave  secure  that  only  earth  should  cover 
me  —  unrecognized  and  uninscribed.  But 
110  —  still  not  yet  —  not  now,  nor  for  some 
time  either."  She  made  a  long  pause,  but 
her  tone  still  raised  at  the  last  words,  denoted 
that  she  meant  —  even  meant  to  say  —  more. 
So  far  as  that,  her  pride  was  spared  —  if  not 
her  meaning. 

"  Because."  said  Rodomant,  very  calmly, 
and  the  calmness  stilled  her  trembling,  "  you 
would  not  choose  to  have  said,  what  might 
and  probably  would  be  said,  if  you  died  now. 
You  would  not  bear  it  said,  because  it  would 
not  be  true  —  and  a  lie  would  keep  even 
your  divine  soul  from  rest." 

"  What  would  not  be  true  ?  Indeed^  is 
half-sincerity  the  truth  on  your  part?     If  I 


desire  you  to  tell  me,  you  can  "ureh  have  no 
fear." 

"I  have  no  fear  for  myself;  it  is  tor  you, 
princess  —  it  is  because,  if  you  command"  me 
and  I  confess  the  very  truth,  you  will  disdain 
yourself  for  having  commanded  me.  And  I 
so  often,  naj'  constantly,  disdain  myself,  that 
I  know  it  is  a  detestably  unpleasant  feeling, 
and  would  not  that  through  my  hetdlessness 
you  incurred  it." 

"I  understand  you,  I  believe  —  you  are 
right.  I  wish  I  could  prove  you  wrong  ia 
any  instance  ;  but  yet  I  never  have  foinid  you 
mistaken  ;  I  yet  hope  I  may.  I  sujjpose  you 
mean,  that  if  a  woman  of  my  age,  unmnrrieu, 
dies  without  obvious  disease,  she  will  be  ac- 
cused of  dying  —  for  love."  Her  chaste-cold 
dignity,  recovered  noM',  made  the  words  a 
mere  abstraction  in  their  sound. 

"  Certainly,  I  meant  so.  I  speak  quite 
plainly,  more  honest  than  so  tliinking  to  my- 
self alone.  As  a  servant  who  sees  urgent 
danger  to  his  service's  sovereign  —  for  in- 
stance, if  flames  wrap  round  her  sleeping- 
chamber,  he  rushes  through  the  barrier,  un- 
bidden, and  tears  her  from  the  pillow  —  his 
own  arms  carry  her  to  safety.  Or  a  snake 
creeps  near  her  under  the  flowers  she  is 
gathering  —  he  plucks  the  monster  from  her 
contact,  even  though  in  so  doing  his  hand 
shall  touch  her  own.  So  near,  so  daring, 
such  a  home-thrust  is  my  warning.  Die  not, 
O  great  princess  !  die  never,  so  long  as  it  is 
in  your  power  to  live.  To  die  for  love  is 
glory;  a  maiden's  palm,  a  widow's  crown  of 
wifehood  —  if  he  who  loved  them  went  be- 
fore them  and  called  them  after  him,  through 
the  irresistible  necessity  for  those  who  love, 
and  sej)arate  —  to  meet  again.  But  let  no 
woman  die  for  any  whom  she  loves  with  a 
love  beyond  his  love.  Or  eternally  must  the 
spirit  ]iine,  unmated." 

"  That  is  nonsense,  what  you  last  assert ; 
no  just  spirit  will  ])ine  eternally.  Perliaps 
than  'mating'  there  are  joys  more  excellent, 
as  more  celestial.  Pity,  you  obscure  your 
own  best  notions  with  what  I  think  a  false 
philosophy."  No  heavenly  mood  affected  her 
at  this  moment ;  but  Rodomant  had  not  re- 
joiced for  a  long  time  as  at  the  reaction  of 
her  behavior.  Still  pale,  but  haughty  from 
head  to  foot,  with  tossed  head,  and  upper 
lip  that  curled  from  the  under  like  the  petals 
of  the  over-blown  carnation,  and  golden  eye- 
brows arched,  she  leaned  back  in  her  chair, 
and  fell  again  on  the  portfolio  —  not  trifling 
witii  it  either,  but  taking  out  each  board  and 
examining  it  deliberately,  passing  each  one 
to  Rodomant  over  her  shoulder,  as  he  stood 
behind  her  seat.  Mute  as  a  servant,  and  as 
untiring,  he  continued  to  hold  in  both  his 
hands  the  momently  increasing  bundle  ;  but 
at  length  she  came  to  the  last  of  all  the  draw- 
ings —  the  portfolio  was  empty ;  she  held 
the  drawing  still  —  selt'-contempt  —  unbear- 
able to  such  a  nature  —  dropped  its  "  deadly 
henbane  '*  on  her  consciousness.     But  at  the 


HUMOR. 


175 


first  instillment  of  the  poison,  her  whole  being 
rejected  it.  Truth  itself  as  she  was,  she 
could  not  endure  a  false  view  of  herself  even 
for  a  moment;  her  nobility,  innate  and  per- 
fect, cleared  every  barrier  of  pride. 

"  I  believe  you  unjustified  in  what  you 
say ;  but  that  you  may  be  aware  I  claim  arid 
hokl  my  right  as  a  woman,  I  will  tell  you 
that  I  have  put  far  from  me  every  thought  of 
Pori)hyro ;  nor  do  I  choose,  even  in  your 
mind,  to  be  coupled  with  him  — understand 
this.  No  dishonor  —  not  the  shade  of  blame 
attaches  to  him  ;  the  dishonor  is  my  dream, 
and  the  blame  —  no  shade  —  is  mine ;  for  I 
yielded  to  homage  paid  me  naturally  as  a 
woman,  as  though  it  were  the  worship  con- 
secrated to  the  M'oman  chosen  only." 

"  Lady  !  "  said  Rodomant,  still  behind  her 
chair ;  she  started,  never  had  she  been  ad- 
dressed so  nearly  as  a  woman,  —  "I  am  not 
Morldly-wise,  but  out  of  the  world  I  know 
much.  I  wish  to  s])eak  —  nay,  more,  I  will 
speak,  and  then  beseech  you  to  banish  me 
forever  ;  to  fulfil,  in  fact,  his  wishes,  not  be- 
cause they  are  his,  but  mine.  Porphyro 
loves  you,  princess,  as  well,  as  honestly,  as 
ardently  as  he  can  love.  Porphyro  delays 
his  own  desire,  and  suffers  —  delights  to  suf- 
fer ;  the  obstinate,  who  defy  love  as  the  infi- 
del defies  God,  absolutely  delight  to  suffer  at 
their  own  will ;  but,  mark  me,  he  would  ijot 
choose  to  suffer,  nor  endure  delay,  were  he 
not  certain  that,  at  the  instant  he  shall  de- 
termine, he  is  to  ask  and  to  receive.  Vehe- 
ment as  is  his  passion,  another  passion  chains 
it ;  and  cold  are  these  eternal  chains  —  no 
fire  can  unrivet,  no  rose-enwoven  fetters /nV/e 
them  from  the  heart  of  the  woman  he  is  j 
doomed  to  marry  with  or  without  love.  That 
cold  strong  passion  is  his  master- will ;  he 
wills  not  to  cross  it  —  incapable  of  self-denial 
in  the  worldly,  as  he  is  in  the  least  worldly 
sentiment.  x\nd  if  he  might  —  oh  !  princess, 
were  he  still  permitted,  he  would  not  own 
you  as  he  is  —  in  his  own  esteem  —  a  wo- 
man's own  inferior." 

"  Oh,  this  ceaseless  tampering  with  the 
truth!  —  the  one  truth  faithful  to  me,  of 
which,  as  it  clings  to  me,  I  am  certain." 

"  Hear  me  yet,  and  bear  with  me  —  as  the 
truth  denying  yours.  He  will  not  take  you 
—  he  would  not  endure  your  devotion,  till 
the  world  should  own  him  —  shall,  as  he 
knows  it  will,  own  him  chief;  till  he  himself 
will  raise  you  among  nations,  not  you  him. 
He  would  not  take  your  help  so  far ;  he 
would  not  bear  the  gratitude  he  then  must 
feel." 

"  You  will  not  tempt  me,"  she  said,  in  that 
tone  of  firm  tenderness,  with  which  a  perfect 
wonan  denies  the  truth  from  lips  'bat  imply 
the  falsehood  of  the  One  to  wh  )m  she  is 
a.ways  true,  till  he  prove  himself  from  his 
oivn  lips,  false. 

"  You  will  not  tempt  me  against  my  faith. 
How  can  I  help  it,  if  I  believe  him  ?  —  help- 
lessly."    Strange,  so  to  thrust  her  helpless- 


ness upon  another  man !  Now  Rodomant, 
still  religiously  behind  her,  took  nomeasure.<> 
from  her  womanly,  half  lost,  and  entirely- 
appealing  look ;  if  he  had  seen  it,  he  would 
have  withdrawn  without  speaking.  But,  Avith 
whole  intention  to  M-ithdraw  entirely — he 
believed,  oh,  presumptuous  !  not  eternally  — 
from  her  presence,  he  was  determined  to  tell 
her  his  whole  mind,  untinctured  with  a  warm 
ray  from  his  heart ;  he  could  resolve  upon 
the  first  intention,  the  latter  eluded  him,  as 
for  so  many  of  us,  happily,  it  eludes  the 
made-up  minds  of  philosophic  men. 

"Is  it,  O  princess  —  loyally  beloved  and 
honored,  —  is  it  not  as  unloyal,  as  dishonor- 
able, for  a  man  to  keep  back  his  suit  in 
words,  —  declaring  his  love  by  sighs,  his  pre- 
possession by  presumptuous  glances,  —  as  it 
would  he  for  a  man  who  loved  in  vain,  and 
knew  it ;  knew  that  he  loved  in  vain  for 
earth,  —  to  declare  it  openly  to  his  own  soul  ? 
Souls  are  not  bodies,  princess  ;  and  I  think 
some  shall  meet  in  heaven,  face  to  face,  em- 
bracing without  fear,  Avho  on  earth  were  in- 
tercepted by  their  bodies,  or  their  bodies' 
miserable  glory  —  Rank, —  from  meeting 
soul  to  soul,  in  the  poor  flesh  soul  glorifies." 
A  noble,  yet  strangely  peaceful  expression, 
covered  his  large  brows  ;  his  passionate  eyes 
were  strangely  peaceful  too.  Yet  he  gazed 
only  on  the  braids  back  dropping  of  her 
golden  hair  ;  and  she,  she  saw  him  not.  She 
dared  not  face  him,  yet  could  not  have  de- 
fined, and  if  questioned,  would  have  denied 
that  proud  and  timorous  love  defiance.  But 
w  ith  an  unprecedented  gesture  of  kindliness 
and  grace,  she  turned  back  her  hand,  half 
threw  it  over  her  shoulder.  Rodomant 
M-')uld  have  died  before  he  embraced  it,  but 
he^smiled  upon  it,  as  the  father  of  the  first- 
born smiles  on  the  vague,  sweet  new  born 
face. 

Swiftly,  almost-angrily,  she  withdrew  her 
hand.  "  I  wished,"  she  said,  in  an  accent  of 
fiery  but  by  no  means  strong  resentment  — 
"  to  TAKE  farewell  of  you.  We  will  not  meet 
again.  I  thank  you,  and  shall  not  forget  you, 
but  we  will  not  meet.  On  earth  I  mean,  of 
course  ;  all  friends  will  meet  in  heaven.  Now 
leave  me,  I  forgive  you." 

Oh,  glorious  exile  for  Rodomant !  proud 
error  crowning  love's  emergency.  She  would 
not  condemn  Porphyro  from  any  other  lips 
than  his  own.  She  still  loved  him  —  why  then 
fear  another  ?  he  too  a  servant !  and  Poi  • 
phyro  her  master,  self-chosen,  long  desired. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

The  princess  kept  her  word,  or  Rodo- 
mant sought  not  to  countermand  it;  they  lid 
not  meet.  Had  ne  persisted  in  presenting 
himself  before   her,   it  is   little   likely  she 


176 


RUMOR. 


would  have  persisted  in  her  determination 
not  again  to  see  him  until  they  met,  as 
friends  shall  meet,  in  heaven.  But  he 
rigidly  restricted  himself  to  the  necessary 
offices  of  his  position,  in  which  she  could 
not  be  said  to  be  concerned,  except  ostensi- 
bly ;  for  though,  as  her  servant,  his  blazon 
remained  untarnished  in  title,  it  was  vir- 
tually extinguished  in  her  father's  claims 
upon  him  —  these  actual  and  inevitably 
entailed. 

It  has  been  said,  we  know  not  what  we 
can  bear  until  the  full  measure  of  our  ap- 
pointed burden  is  dropped  upon  us.  Many 
accept  the  meed  of  suffering  in  patience  — 
blessed  power  derived  from  temperament  the 
slackly  strung.  Few,  but  those  perfectly, 
achieve  the  victory  over  suffering  in  courage, 
gitY  of  iron  predominating  in  the  blood. 
And  one  or  two  in  every  thousand,  beat 
back  and  defy  suffering  with  pride,  so  long 
as  an  atom  of  pride's  essence  remains  to 
them  uneva])orated.  For  pride  is  a  non- 
during  agent.  Then  at  the  last  gasp  foiled, 
seemingly  crushed  down  into  a  m.iss  obtuser 
and  more  inert  than  clay,  such  spirits  break 
all  bonds  amuider,  and  by  might  of  j^assion, 
the  Spirit's  incorporeal  strength,  they  spring 
to  life  again,  the  vitality  of  suffering;  a  life, 
if  less  lasting  than  eternity,  yet  sustaining 
to  the  farthest  verge  of  time. 

There  is  yet  another  class,  both  despised 
and  prized,  perhaps  both  inordinately,  for 
its  exceptionalism.  Of  its  individuals,  there 
are  not  one  or  two  in  every  thousand,  but 
in  every  hundred  thousand,  perhaps,  a  single 
instance,  rare  as  the  aloe  among  blossoms, 
the  phoenix  among  winged  fables.  This  is 
the  organization  of  the  ideal,  as  strictly 
opposed  to  the  skilful  and  creative  genius. 
Delicately  irritable,  it  is  at  the  same  time 
victoriously  strong;  vehemently  impassion- 
ate,  it  is  sensitive  even  to  itself.  Its  im- 
pressions, vivid  to  pain,  fade  not  like  the 
vivid  impressions  of  other  temperaments, 
but  are  permanent  in  full  intensity.  Their 
very  memories  are  not  embalmed,  but  living. 
Far  more  securely  than  men  of  ordinary 
prudence,  such  a  being  reserves  its  impulses, 
until  certain  of  their  direction,  whether  to- 
wards fruition  or  disappointment.  And  it 
is  less  pride  that  influences  him  in  the  con- 
cealment of  great  desires  unauthorized,  than 
the  ardent  spiritual  aspiration  after  sacrifice, 
that  dream  of  the  ideal  oftener  realized  than 
any  dream  of  any  other  di-eamer.  Meantime 
the  mortal  error  and  the  human  fault,  the 
peculiar  flaw  of  this  organization,  which  pre- 
vent its  being  either  desirable,  or  perfectly 
admirable,  while  they  render  its  conduct  an 
enigma  to  the  world,  and  convey  to  the 
puritanic  a  warning  fear ;  are  the  moods 
inexpedient  for  time  and  for  society  — 
inutile  on  behalf  of  the  multitude,  a  per- 
plexing charm  even  to  the  sympathizing  and 
appreciative  few  —  by  which  such  tempera- 
ments are   distinguished.     As  for  theii'  own 


sufferings,  they  are  agonies  no  skill  or  pre- 
caution are  able  to  blunt,  but  ever  calmlj 
borne  to  outward  eyes,  not  patiently  ?r/77u'n, 
however ;  and  entailing  weakness,  manifold, 
mysterious,  inexplicable,  which  mars  symme- 
try, and  rasps  the  fulness  from  the  edge  of 
beauty,  should  such  a  one  be  born  with 
either;  which  saps  slowly,  slowly,  never 
unto  death  by  itself,  however,  the  sound 
health  of  blood,  and  body,  and  brain:  while 
the  nerves  chafed  down,  made  naked  to  the 
quick,  respond  too  sharply,  suddenly,  to 
every  demand  upon  them,  great  and  small ; 
and  M'hen  subjected  to  extraordinary  shock, 
or  long  inevitable  pressiu'e,  give  awful  signs, 
interpreted  by  fools,  semi-physiologists,  and 
some  sane  men,  as  tokens  near  upon  that 
end  of  suffering  —  madness. 

Neither  such  extraordinary  shock,  nor  so 
long  an  inevitable  pressure  can  be  classed 
or  described  with  precision  that  might  enable 
any  to  guard  against  or  baffle  either.  Both 
may  spring  from  any  cause  sufficient  to  affect 
sensation  through  emotion.  And  beings 
liable  to  them  are,  of  all  the  creatures  of 
humanity,  the  least  selfish,  or  selfishly  ])rov- 
ident,  or  prospective.  Such  was  Rodo- 
mant,  the  very  king  and  type  of  such  a  tem- 
perament and  organism.  He  had  proposed 
to  himself  the  most  perfect  and  unbetrayed 
endurance  of  his  own  set  task ;  he  had  laid 
securely,  in  his  own  esteem,  his  plan  for 
permanent  self-sacrifice.  And  it  was  easy 
and  safe  so  long  as  excitement  —  no  more  a 
continuous  concomitant  of  strong  feeling, 
than  fever  of  disease  —  lasted.  Swiftly  ex- 
tinguished, as  flame  whose  feeding  fuel  is 
spent,  was  such  excitement  —  it  scarcely 
endured  until  two  suns  had  risen  and  set 
after  his  exile  from  presence  of  her  he  was 
born  and  only  lived  to  serve.  Then  the 
reality  of  existence  became  less  like  a  weight 
or  burden,  than  a  blank  of  hope,  of  expecta- 
tion—  it  even  seemed  as  though  despair 
were  too  definite  a  torment  to  haunt  the 
empty  being.  As  the  firmament  without 
the  sun,  could  one  still  imagine  light  abroad, 
or  as  the  universe  without  its  Maker  —  could 
one  disbelieve  actually  his  existence ;  was 
now  Rodomant's  state  of  consciousness.  He 
looked  back  now  through  his  experience,  in 
which  the  queen  and  angel  of  his  destiny 
was  concerned,  with  amazement  at  himself 
for  having  suffered  at  all,  when  he  wa<  per- 
mitted to  see  her,  and  not  deprived  of  hop'j 
when  the  permission  v,as  timely  suspended. 
Spiritual  enough  to  be  able  fully  and  rap- 
turously to  inhale  as  it  were  her  spiritual 
fragrance,  through  the  medium  of  personal, 
if  ever  so  reserved,  communioji,  he  was  far 
too  passionate  to  be  able  to  perceive  that 
spiritual  emanation,  cut  off  from  her  pres- 
ence altogether ;  it  may  in  fact  be  doubted 
whether  those  passionately  attached  can 
ever  attain  perfect  communion  ■of  spirit  in 
absence,  for  as  they  meet  in  the  love-glorified 
body,  so  the  flesh  yearns  for  the  flesh  in 


RUMOR. 


177 


separation,  as  truly  as  the  spirit  for  the 
spirit,  and  as  nobly.  And  while  flesh  and 
spirit  are  bound  together,  as  on  earth,  each 
is  necessary  to  the  other,  and  neither  perfect 
of  itself.  _        _  I 

Not  only  his  own  selfish  part  in  this  forced 
absence  pained  him — he  could  now  be  of  j 
no  more  service  than  a  bread-fruit  tree  in  | 
the  Pacific  isles  —  to  her.  Were  she  ill,  he 
would  not  have  the  chance  to  detect  the 
ea'-lie^t  and  medicable  sym])toms  — were  she 
to  die,  as  it  now  seemed  possible  she  might, 
in  punishment  for  his  blasphemous  fancy  — 
he  would  only  hear  her  death  announced,  as 
in  a  thousand  ears  of  those  who  loved  her 
not  it  would  be  announced  —  and  with  her 
death  forgotten. 

Great  awfid  woes,  no  more  than  simple 
small  ones,  come  singly,  as  has  been  said. 
Soon  another  terror  fell  upon  him,  and  iliis 
one  paralyzed  his  pride  that  volition  had  no 
power  to  rouse  it.  The  moment  he  tried  — 
it  had  never  before  caused  effort  —  to  com- 
pose again,  he  was  balked,  as  light  balks  the 
blind,  as  the  sweet  warm  sunshine  balks  the 
dying,  too  cold  to  feel  it.  It  was  not  that 
material  failed  him —  on  the  contrary,  themes, 
operas,  masses,  great  orchestral  skeletons, 
swarmed,  mocking,  in  his  brain.  But  when 
he  would  have  seized  one  and  dismissed  the 
rest,  the  whole  eluded  him  together,  a  phan- 
tom crowd.  Again,  endeavoring  to  poise 
his  mental  perception,  that  reeled  like  a 
drunkard's  vision,  back  rushed  the  ideas  in 
their  undisciplined  and  whirling  multitude, 
producing  of  the  brain  a  super-vital  action, 
like  the  result  on  a  pulse  in  fever,  of  stimu- 
lants too  rashly  imbibed.  With  a  desperate 
but  resolved  self-denial,  he  threw  all  the  im- 
plements aside,  and  would  haA-e  simply 
EXISTED,  till  the  faculties  fell  into  rank,  and 
the  violent  reaction  reacted  again  in  order, 
would  have  simply  existed  —  but  for  the 
great  truth,  —  superseding  fact  and  imagina- 
tion,—  which  directly  the  intellect  resolved 
on  non-employment,  sprang  like  lightning 
across  the  storm  of  consciousness,  and  died 
not  like  lightning,  but  endured  to  dazzle 
and  beguile  from  rest :  —  the  Truth,  alike 
pertaining  to  heavenly  and  earthly  devotion, 
that  love  cannot  "  slumber  nor  sleep." 

JJay  and  night,  therefore,  the  sleepless 
certainty  possessed  him.  Nor  was  this  vigi- 
lance, albeit  the  devotion  of  self,  entirely 
seliish  in  devotion,  Rodomant,  —  not  the 
first  man  whose  habits  love's  rule  has  in- 
fringed on  —  even  altered,  —  began  to  take 
an  interest  in  politics  and  to  devour  their 
chronicles  dated  from  a  given  region,  written 
in  a  given  dialect.  If  there  was  one  spe- 
ciality of  modern  civilization  he  loathed,  it 
was  the  universal  prevalence  —  plague  he 
had  been  used  to  term  it  —  of  newspapers. 
Now  he  courted  them,  and  they  became  his 
guides,  his  instructors  in  the  familiar  science 
of  Predominance.  He  discovered,  by  the 
way,   in  these   readings   that    predominant 

2a 


persons  are  alone  thus  ephemerally  em- 
balmed, also  that  as  many  insignificant  as 
remarkable  persons  predominate  in  the  an- 
nals of  diumally  celebrated  hero-worship. 
This  was  a  discovery  by  the  way,  for  often 
he  bemoaned  himself  on  the  length  and 
depth  of  rubbish  he  had  to  examine  and 
sift,  in  order  to  discover  those  grains  of 
rarity  more  precious  and  less  common  than 
gold  —  items  of  infoitnation  about  the  person 
or  subject  that  happens  to  interest  one.  Now 
Rodomant  forced  himself  to  the  laborious 
achievement  entirely  to  discover  what  Poi-- 
phyro  was  said  to  have  done,  or  to  me«n  — 
he  drew  his  own  conclusions  from  the  cloud 
of  witnesses  encompassing  this  most  tan- 
gible mystery  that  ever  baffled  humanity. 
Certainly,  many  assertions  made  one  day 
were  contradicted  the  next,  even  by  the 
press  which  held  Porphyro  next  its  heart, 
that  of  Parisinia  ;  —  also  reports  were  spread 
which  to  Rodomant's  honor  he  discredited  : 
—  to  his  honor,  for  he  had  anticipated,  and 
wished  to  believe  them  —  but  repudiated 
them  for  her  sake,  whose  destiny  their  fulfil- 
ment would  darken.  They  wei"e  reports, 
now  uncertain  and  sibylline,  now  oracular, 
and  attested  of  the  possible  exaltation  of 
Porphyro  to  the  highest  rank  man  has  dared 
to  invent  and  invest  himself  with,  under  the 
Ruler  of  heaven  and  earth. 

As  far  as  Rodomant's  safety  in  his  position 
was  concerned,  it  was  happy  for  him  that  he 
had  composed  with  such  unmitigated  indus- 
try before  the  crisis  of  his  love.  He  "had 
endless  creations,  both  sketched  out  and 
clearly  arranged  —  filled  in,  he  would  have 
said.  But  the  prince's  curiosity  was  insa- 
tiable, and  he  had  the  mental  avidity  of  the 
intellect  diseased,  an  appetite  unnatural,  that 
would  only  gorge  what  was  new.  So  Rodo- 
mant wondered,  with  a  sort  of  fatal  calmness, 
what  would  happen  when  he  had  produced 
the  last  sheet  from  his  finite  stoi-e.  He 
remembered  Porphyro's  words  about  his 
fame — or  genius  —  exhausted  on  its  "trial 
cruise,"  —  spoken  all  those  long  month's 
ago  ;  now  he  felt  as  though  that  genius  were 
becalmed  upon  a  tideless  and  a  shoreless  sea. 
As  for  his  fame  —  alas  !  yet  bewailing  it  bit- 
terly as  Israel's  mothers  wept  their  slaugh- 
tered first-born,  he  foresaw  not  the  celesti^ 
remission  of  certain  sorrows  that  very  be- 
reavement should  purchase  him.  For  his 
fame  was  dead,  or  so  he  deemed  it ;  was  it 
not  rather  that  it  had  never  lived  ?  Yet  the 
poor  soul,  crowned  with  those  delicate  palm- 
shadows,  which  shelter  the  brows  so  proudly 
in  youth's  first  burning  summer-day,  can 
only  suffer  in  silence  when  they  fall  and  dis- 
solve, not  even  waiting  to  wither  with  the 
autumn,  like  forest-leaves  of  earth.  They 
can  only  suffer  in  silence,  the  moon-heata 
beating  on  the  head,  for  pride  never  fails  the 
intellect,  though  love  may  usurp  in  the  heart. 

It  is  a  mistake  that  genius  inevitably  lacks 
common  sense  ;  on  the  contrary,  that  homely 


178 


RUMOR. 


Dut  precious  instinct  is  ever  wanting  m  pro- 
portion to  mental  deficiency.  Rcdomant  | 
once  assured  that  he  could  be  of  no  further ' 
use,  where  he  was,  to  the  only  being  he  cared  | 
to  serve  or  please  —  and  not  only  so,  but  the  j 
only  being,  who,  he  now  discovered,  had 
made  him  prize  his  present  position,  arranged 
with  himself  to  go,  to  return  to  his  own  rank, 
and  exalt  —  if  his  faculties  regained  their 
rule  —  no  longer  himself  as  an  artist,  but  his 
art.  Long  prostration  and  severer  penalties 
might  await  him  still,  but  his  chances  would 
be  greater  of  recovering  himself —  that  self- 
possession  which  the  wise  man  clings  to,  and 
that  self-respect  which  saves  so  many  minds 
from  madness.  Free  of  the  degradation  of 
a  tyrant's  bounty,  he  could  even  endure  pov- 
erty ;  that  phantom  he  had  feared  in  his  first 
fame  might  intercept  its  fulness,  but  which 
now,  without  further  experience,  save  from 
within,  he  had  learned  to  appreciate  as  a 
better  friend,  and  a  nobler  foe  than  wealth. 

Now  it  might  seem  very  easy  for  Rodo- 
mant  to  withdraw  —  indeed,  how  should  he 
be  liable  to  detention  more  than  any  other 
servant  who  works  for  wages,  and  desires  to 
change  his  place?  He  could  not  tell  himself 
why  he  dreaded  to  ask  permission,  for  he 
knew  he  must  do  that,  or  thought  so  then ; 
but  yet  he  had  a  presentiment  which  he  dis- 
liked, but  could  not  disdain — for  his  presen- 
timents were  always  prophetic  —  that  it 
would  be  as  difficult  to  loose  his  chains  of 
service,  as  though  they  had  been  fetters  of 
the  same  temper  as  those  with  which  the 
prince  loaded  certain  of  his  servants,  Avho 
had  the  misfortune  to  be  born  his  subjects 
too.  Determined  to  get  free,  however,  and 
desirous  to  attain  liberty  without  scandal, 
which  might  possibly  im])licate  another, 
Rodomant  finally  settled  with  himself  to  re- 
quest leave  of  his  patron  to  pay  a  visit  to 
his  mother  —  a  request  so  natural,  it  seemed 
impossible  should  be  either  refused  or  sus- 
pected. 

But  the  prince  suspected  all  men  — 
even  court-musicians.  Rodomant  knew  not, 
rither,  that  one  of  his  predecessors  had  been 
imprisoned  on  suspicion  of  a  tendency  to 
communism,  betrayed  in  a  letter  to  a  friend, 
which,  written  in  cipher,  had  its  characters 
detected  as  secret,  through  the  thin  post 
paper  enclosing  it.  Nor  knew  Rodomant 
that,  although  this  person  escaped,  he  had  in 
the  very  act  of  escaj^e  rendered  such  sus- 
picion more  likely  to  fall  upon  other  persons 
of  the  same  profession.  Rodomant's  wit, 
daring,  and  non-dependence  on  others, 
8eemed  to  invest  him  further  with  suspicion 
— just  such  a  one  as  he,  multiplied  by  thou- 
sands, created  those  social  nuisances  called 
secret  societies ;  and  these  all  had  for 
their  foundation  an  improper  desire  for  lib- 
erty, both  of  action  and  of  opinion  —  they 
all  detested  autocracy,  which  they  named 
tyranny.  Such  common-place  objections  as 
these  sufficed  tc  rendei  Rodomant's  request 


improper,  and  in  its  assumed  reason  an  im- 
posture. He  had  prepared  a  respectful  but 
ncn  obsequious  speech,  in  which  to  make 
known  his  desire ;  he  was  amazed  at  the 
aspect  of  the  prince  on  its  reception;  the 
latter  turned  pale,  and  gazed  weakly  around 
him  —  there  was  unsteadiness  and,  at  the 
same  time,  animal-like  eagerness  in  his  voice 
as  he  replied,  — 

"  What  on  earth,  or  under  earth,  do  yon 
want  to  go  for  ?  " 

"To  see  my  mother,  as  I  Lad  the  honor  to 
tell  your  highness." 

"So  you  said  —  that  is  impossible;  son* 
are  not  in  these  days  so  filial ;  then,  you 
have  only  been  here  a  year  and  eight  months. 
Besides  —  how  do  I  know  you  have  a 
mother  ?  No,  no  !  "  changing  his  tone  on  a 
sudden,  vvith  the  sugar-like  lymph  of  a  tem- 
perament whose  amiable  moods  were  more 
dangerous  than  its  anger.  "  I  cannot  spare 
you  ;  that  is  more  than  a  sufficient  answer. 
No  one  has  filled  your  place,  nor  would,  so 
welL  You  are  therefore  fixed  in  it  —  a 
marked  point,  too — an  envied  one,  as  you 
ought  to  be  grateful  enough  to  acknoM'ledge. 
But  you  possess  the  hairy  hide  of  genius, 
alas  !  we  must  expect  no  amenities." 

"  I  know  the  value  of  my  position,"  said 
Rodomant,  too  earnestly  for  good  policy. 

The  prince  brought  his  hand  down  on  the 
table  with  force  that  shook  it,  and  also  pained 
his  own  velvet  palm.  Rubbing  it,  he  ex- 
claimed, viciously,  "  1  do  not  choose  you  to 
go — that  is  enough,  let  us  hear  no  more 
about  it.  Now,  what  have  you  done  the  last 
week  —  it  is,  I  believe,  so  long  since  I  last 
sent  for  you." 

But,  alas  !  as  we  have  said,  Rodomant  had 
done  literally  nothing ;  he  endeavored  to 
annihilate  the  void  impression,  however,  by 
all  sorts  of  sudden  inventions,  clever  enough 
to  have  deceived  an  art-academy,  but  which 
the  prince  detected  —  too  clever  himself  not 
to  do  so,  and  which  he  detested,,  too  passion- 
less to  endure  passion's  vagaries,  out  of  the 
restrictions  of  art.  He  instantly  fancied 
Rodomant  had  so  disported  himself  on  pur- 
pose to  disgust  him,  or  rather  in  a  moment 
it  struck  him  that  the  restlessness  and  the 
idleness  sprang  from  the  same  source  — 
a  mercenary  inclination.  He  was  prodigal, 
if  not  liberal,  with  the  finances  wrung  like 
their  life'-s  blood  from  his  poorer  subjects  by 
taxation,  fine,  and  forfeiture.  "  What  is  your 
salary?"  he  inquired,  knowing  quite  well, 
of  course,  but  very  glad  to  shift  the  cause  of 
suspicion :  his  tone  was  gay.  Rodomant 
stared  —  he  was  alarmed,  he  knew  not  why. 
"  Your  salary  !  "  exclaimed  the  other,  im- 
patient now.  Rodomant  had  £400  a  year, 
reckoning  in  Saxon,  with  perquisites  that 
added  another  hundred  to  the  sum.  He 
mentioned  it  in  the  current  terms  of  Belvi- 
dere. 

.  "  We  will  for  the  future  appoint  it  £700; 
but  there  must  be  no  remission  of  duties, 


RUMOR. 


179 


as  of  late.  There  will  be  a  special  chance 
for  you  to  distinguish  yourself  soon  —  you 
are  of  course  aware,  and  will  be  prepared." 

Rodomant  bowed  with  awful  stateliness, 
an  awful  sensation  affected  him,  which  he 
could  not  have  defined,  as  he  suddenly  re- 
flected on  that  chance  for  self-distinction,  of 
which  it  was  true  he  had  heard,  but  which  he 
heeded  no  more  than  one  heeds  the  reversion 
of  day  and  night  at  one's  own  antipodes  — 
it  se;med  to  have  as  little  to  do  with  Jiim. 
It  was  the  prospective  jubilee  of  the  prince, 
or  rather  his  fiftieth  birthday,  to  be  so  cele- 
brated ;  his  worshippers  who  were  in  fact  the 
men  who,  nearest  to  him,  feared  him  most, 
had  devised  the  pageant,  and  caused  it  to  be 
noised  abroad.  Rodomant,  however,  cared 
little  to  dispute  with  him  at  this  moment 
—  and  assumed  irreproachable  propriety. 
"  Your  highness  would  honor  me  unspeak- 
ably by  a  liint,  at  least,  of  your  commands 
for  me  on  that  auspicious  occasion ;  they 
could  not  be  too  deeply  or  too  long  consid- 
ered." 

"  A  grand  mass,"  said  the  prince,  hastily, 
giving  a  curious  glance  over  his  shoulder, 
then  drawing  in  his  breath.  Rodomant 
knew  tbe  sign  ;  a  semi-sibyl  or  half-caste 
gypsy,  who  had  in  part  tended  the  infancy  of 
the  prince,  had  uttered  when  dying  a  mysti- 
cal enunciation  with  reference  to  his  end, 
that,  should  he  survive  the  fiftieth  anniver- 
sary of  his  birth,  he  would  behold  his  chil- 
dren's children.  The  possibility  of  his 
perishing  on  that  day  was,  however,  not 
further  stated ;  and,  in  consequence,  the 
prince  who  had  been  born  at  noon  was  anx- 
ious to  get  over  that  Iwnr,  and  till  its  end 
meant  to  remain  in  seclusion,  while  the  few 
drops  in  his  veins,  that  were  dregs  of  a  race 
once  supreme,  forced  him  to  resolve  upon  a 
celebration  of  that  era,  it  having  lieen  sug- 
gested to  him  by  those  who  were,  as  well  as 
himself,  privy  to  the  oracle.  He  would  re- 
pudiate this  by  a  special  solemnity,  and  an 
act  of  sublime  courage. 

"  A  grand  mass,"  he  repeated,  "  in  token 
of  gratitude  to  Heaven,  and  reverence  for 
the  Clnirch.  For  performance  in  the  cathe- 
dral—  not  the  chapel  —  remember.  I  ex- 
pect you  will  astonish  us  on  the  occasion." 

Dismissed  sooner  than  usual,  and  followed 
to  the  door  by  scrutinizing  eyes,  Rodomant 
left  the  ])rince  in  a  frame  bordering  on  obsti- 
nacy. He  was  not  only  I'esolved  on  flight, 
but  that  his  flight  should  be  immediate.  It 
may  be  said,  was  it  so  surpassingly  difficult 
to  escape  ?  Surely,  it  required  no  extraor- 
dinary ingenuity  to  leave  the  palace,  —  it  was 
only  to  walk  out  of  it,  and  return  no  more  ; 
of  course,  he  only  chose  eccentric  means 
because,  in  common  with  most  minds  of 
genius,  he  preferred  exceptional  to  straight- 
forward conduct.  Not  at  all ;  he  knew,  not 
that  it  was  difficult,  but  impossible,  to  escape 
at  pleasure.  His  presentimental  terrors,  ac- 
complished, held  him  by  an  iron  spell  be- 


sides. But  the  actual  impossibiJity  consisted 
in  the  literal  fact  that  the  palace  was  a  masked 
prison  —  it  would  have  been  as  easy  to  quit 
unnoticed  a  real  and  open-faced  one.  As  we 
said  before,  soldie  s  in  domestic  disguise 
guarded  stairs,  corridors,  corners  ;  porters, 
mailed  under  velvet,  kept  every  entrance; 
outside,  the  sentries  double  deep,  at  dreary 
day  and  wakeful  night,  moved  on.  And  as 
for  the  windows  of  Rodomant's  own  rooms, 
they  were  so  near  the  roof,  that  to  glance 
from  them  to  the  marble  flat  of  the  bight  st 
terrace  turned  dizzy  even  his  strong  head. 
It  was  a  fact  that  he  had  often  passed  out  of 
the  palace  unnoticed ;  but  how  long  would 
even  that  possibility  endure?  for  once  in- 
fected with  the  prince's  desire  to  detain  him, 
the  careless  or  mocking  myrmidoms  of  tyran- 
ny —  careless  and  mocking  for  Rodomant  as 
a  mere  toy-appendage  of  the  court,  cheaper 
purchased  than  themselves  —  would  swiftly 
change  to  careful  and  grave  individuals,  ready 
to  pounce  upon  him  with  arrest.  For  such 
service  they  were  sold,  and  would  have  kiUed 
him  before  they  let  him  go. 

Rodomant  walked  wildly  up  and  down, 
drew  deep  but  inward  sighs,  felt  half  stifled 
with  the  fancy  that  those  superb  strong  pre- 
cincts were  strong  petrifactions  of  his  own 
despair.  He  had  taken  off  his  shoes,  actu- 
ally afraid,  at  that  distance  from  the  royal 
centre,  to  be  heard  to  pace  in  meditation,  or 
semi-madness.  If  an  indirect  course  must 
be  adopted,  why  did  he  not  apply  to  Ade- 
lai'da?  if  not  in  person,  w^hy  not  by  letter? 
Surely  she,  without  collusion  or  hypocritic 
demeanor  who  lived  a  life  in  contradiction  of 
her  father's  existence,  op])osed  tacitly,  yet 
openly,  to  his  character  and  conduct,  his  hab- 
its, his  very  state  —  could  have  managed  to 
procure  for  Rodomant  a  safe  and  speedy 
exit.  Truly  and  painfully  as  she  would  have 
felt  his  loss,  were  he  actually  about  to 
depart,  she  would  with  all  her  heart  and 
skill  have  endeavored  to  gratify  him,  and  suc- 
ceeded. But  Rodomant  wovdd  have  passed 
his  whole  life  in  that  palace-prison,  or  in  u 
narrower  one,  rather  than  have  addressed 
to  her  a  line,  a  word,  or  conveyed  to  her  a 
hint  of  his  need  through  any  other  person. 
This  last  arrangement  might  liave  been  read- 
ily  effected ;  for  Romana,  still  in  the  ne^r 
vicinity,  was  yet  admitted  to  her  presence", 
and  also  now  and  then  continued  to  flit  across 
Rodomant's  duL''  or  frenzied  evenings,  like  a 
brilliant  moth. 

Rodomant  knew  he  could  send  a  message 
by  Romana  to  the  princess  ;  on  Romana  no 
suspicion  had  fallen,  and  he  could  behave 
amiably  —  even  gayly,  while  at  the  same  time 
he  was  sincere ;  in  his  transient  stays  he 
only  beheld  the  gold  and  gemmed  surface  of 
the  hollow  false  regality.  No,  Rodomant 
would  never  again  communicate  with  her,  hia 
pride  exulted  absurdly  in  this  decision.  She 
had  banished  him,  and  —  shame  to  him  for 
that  —he  had  a  savage  gratification  in  obey- 


180 


RUMOR. 


ing  hev  fflll  to  the  letter  —  nay.  beyond  it,  I 
he  flattered  himself — he  would  not(  he 
stated  inwardly)  have  gone  to  her,  had  she 
sent  tor  him.  I 

P)  ovidence  —  or  a  lowlier  fate  —  sent  Ro- 
mana  tu  his  rooms  that  evening.  The  painter 
was  amazed  at  liis  agreeability  —  he  was  j 
charming,  loquacious,  but  extremely  calm. 
After  a  variety  of  topics  had  been  touched,  [ 
he  asked  carelessly,  "  Have  you  finished  the  I 
princess?  I  suppose  so  —  it  is  almost  an 
insult  to  your  industry  to  put  the  question." 

•'  It  is  ended  —  yes,  at  last." 

"  How  soon  to  go  then  ?  I  mean  it,  not  j 
you  ?  "'  Rodomant  was  dismayed  momently; 
lie  feared  it  already  gone. 
.  "  Oh,  I  cannot  tell  —  she  tries  me  sorely 
■with  her  caprices  about  the  frame  ;  she  will 
not  let  it  stand  in  that  provided  by  Porphyro, 
•  regardless  of  expense.'  I  will  say  that  for 
the  director,  Avhom  many  accuse  of  '  stinge.' 
I  am  on  her  father  now,  he  takes  much  less 
space,  I  mean  time ;  he  is  an  effigy,  and  will 
not  be  expected  to  have  expression." 

"  How  soon  shall  you  have  finished  both  ?  " 

"  In  ten  days,  and  be  off  by  that  time,  too ; 
I  cannot  do  —  or  rather,  have  not  done  what 
I  expected  here,  after  all.  But,  as  doctors 
tell  one,  the  benefit  of  sea  air  is  not  expe- 
rienced till  one  returns  inland,  I  trust  it  will 
be  the  case  that  the  beauty  and  color  of 
this  matchless  climate  will  impregnate  my 
future  to  fruition  —  my  present  sorely 
lacks  it." 

'•  Does  the  prince  like  his  own  picture  ?  " 
asked  Ptodomant,  in  agony  at  his  errant 
allusions. 

"  He  likes  hers  better,  which  is  a  good 
thing  for  me,  because  he  will  of  course 
praise  it  to  Porphyro.  He  is,  I  believe, 
proud  of  her  picture,  because  I  have  con- 
trived to  infuse  into  it  a  certain  resemblance 
to  himself',  without  marring  hers.  As  she  is 
considered  a  handsome  woman,  his  vanity  is 
gratified  ;  I  imagine  the  parental  instinct  to 
be  hiexcitable." 

"  Oh,  you  end  in  admiring  her  then  ? " 
Rodomant  was  too  preoccupied  with  his 
sterner  purpose  to  be  ruffled  at  the  idea, 
which  would  have  infuriated  him  a  short 
month  back." 

"  Her  character,  certainly ;  she  is  one  of 
the  shining  lights,  futile  as  all  female  mis- 
sionaries, and  she-ameliorators  on  a  large 
scale,  must  be,  but  sterling  good  herself. 
Her  beauty  is  nought  —  insufficient  even 
for  a  study." 

"  How  much  will  you  have  for  it  ?  "  Rodo- 
mant. inwardly  reckless,  held  himself  out- 
wardly in  check  —  his  design  formed,  he 
could  aflbrd  it  time  to  ripen  for  security.  "  I 
mean,  how  much  will  Porphyro  give  you  ?  " 

'*  Not  settled." 

"  How  much  shall  you  ask  ?  " 

"  I  should  have  asked  two  hundred,  if  re- 
ijuired  to  settle  beforehand.  If  I  had  pleased 
myself,  and  painted  quickly,  I  would  have 


taken  one  hundred  and  fifty  ;  but  as  it  hat 
spoiled  much  time,  and  I  hate  the  result,  I 
shall  ask,  and  receive  of  course  in  this  case, 
two  hundred  and  fifty." 

"Xot  too  much  —  not  enough,  indeed  — 
you  are  certain  that  is  all  you  intend  to 
take  ?  " 

"  Surely.  What  a  singular  question  — 
singularly  put  too  —  by  you." 

Quite  natural,  Rodomant  thought,  in  the 
event  of  his  eccentric  resolve  achie"'?d. 
This  was  neither  more  nor  less  than  tc  de- 
stroy the  princess's  picture.  Of  course  (so 
reasoned  he)  for  such  a  crime  he  should  be 
banished  ;  for  it  was  a  crime  he  could  suf- 
ficiently defend  in  its  confession,  from  possi- 
bility of  affiliation  on  treason  as  its  ])arent. 
He  could  but  be  banished  ;  exile  was  the 
only  punishment  to  which  in  such  a  case  a 
sovereign  could  condescend.  Far  other 
would  have  been  the  result,  he  considered, 
had  he  determined  to  destroy  the  prince's 
own  portrait ;  that  might,  and  indeed  must, 
have  attached  to  him  the  suspicion  of  dis 
loyalty  towards,  if  not  design  upon,  the  per- 
son of  the  original.  The  prince  did  not 
care  enough  for  his  child  to  associate  her 
with  the  the  royal  idea,  any  more  than  the 
reality.  Then,  what  triumph  to  annihilate 
the  work  founded  falsely  on  the  artist's  prej-_ 
udice  ;  what  glory  to  denude  Porphyro  of 
its  possession,  already  reckoned  on  by  him 
so  audaciously.  It  was  indeed  this  last  con- 
sideration of  all,  that  thrust  Rodomant  to 
the  commission  of  a  deed  which  his  innate 
nobility  would  have  repudiated,  in  its  natu- 
ral and  healthful  condition.  The  mood  in 
which  he  wrought  his  morbid  vengeance 
selfishly,  was  neither  healthful  nor  indeed 
natural ;  and  the  moments,  in  which  he  pro- 
jected it  so  swiftly,  were  haunted  by  phan- 
toms of  disease,  if  not  disease ;  prompted 
by  a  disordered,  if  not  disorganized,  intelli- 
gence. 

"  So  she  did  not  like  the  frame ;  why 
not  ?  " 

"  Too  many  insignia  of  '  rule,'  both  hers 
and  his.  Crowns  and  laurel  garlands  ;  stars 
and  flowers,  chiefly  the  iris  and  violet  — 
certainly  nothing  prettier  than  the  latter. 
Nor  are  crosses  wanting  ;  her  '  order '  is  not 
overlooked.  The  unfortunate  portrait  is  at 
present  frameless.  I  have  sent  for  the  other 
frame  to  Genoa." 

The  news  of  the  repudiation  of  the  frame, 
also  the  description  of  it,  gave  Rodomant  a 
gleam  of  grim  pleasure  ;  a  sunbeam  on  a 
Golgotha,  for  his  mood,  with  all  its  antici- 
pation, was  ghastly  too. 

"  So,  where  is  the  picture  in  the  mean- 
time ?  " 

"  In  the  studio  still ;  there  is  no  damp 
there  ;  I  almost  wonder,  for  the  sake  of  its 
future  possessor,  she  did  not  retain  it  in 
her  own  rooms." 

"  I  am  warm,"  said  Rodomant,  after  some 
minutes'   taciturnity,  which   made   Roraana 


RUMOR. 


181 


nse  to  his  feet-- prepare  to  go.  "I  -will 
walk  out  with  you  to  see  this  poi'trait  ;  it  is 
not  late." 


CHAPTER    XXXI. 

It  was  early  —  for  warm  as  it  was,  the 
shortest  days  of  Belvidere  were  close  at 
hand ;  a  balmy  sweetness,  like  our  softest 
spring,  was  all  it  knew  of  winter.  Rodo- 
mant,  in  going  forth  companioned  by  Ro- 
mana,  did  the  wisest  thing  he  could  to  elude 
suspicion,  even  if  in  that  short  time  it  was 
possible  that  suspicion  could  have  spread. 

"  You  may  thank  me,"  said  Romana,  at 
the  bottom  of  the  pavilion  stair,  for  letting 
you  see  my  work.  I  would  not  let  a  fool, 
nor  what  is  called  a  brother-artist  —  Cain  is 
symbol  for  such  a  one  and  the  whole  frater- 
nity,—  I  say  I  would  not  let  such  see  a  work 
of  mine  by  candle-light ;  they  would  not 
allow  the  truth,  that  my  colors  stand  that 
fade-all  test." 

Rodomant  would  have  esteemed  the 
moon's  light  sufficient  for  his  contemplation, 
but  he  dared  not  say  so.  Romana  vaulted 
up  the  steps  ;  the  pavilion  was  raised  by 
them  several  feet  from  the  ground,  besides 
being  placed  on  an  eminence,  and  clad  from 
its  marble  margin  to  the  level  ground  with 
myrtle  spires. 

Rodomant  suddenly  beheld  a  green  glare 
through  all  the  eight  narrow  arches  blinded 
with  grass-tinted  silk,  that  contained  the 
windows.  "  Come  up,"  he  heard  Romana 
say,  the  latter  having,  by  means  of  a  match 
from  his  cigar-case,  lighted  the  chandelier 
suspended  from  the  central  ceiling-point, 
whose  alabaster  branches  were  furnished 
with  taper-!,  wax-white  as  themselves.  Rod- 
omant, giddy  with  prescience,  ran  up  hastily, 
as  Romana  was  drawing  from  the  portrait 
its  covering.  Rodomant  gave  a  glance, 
gasped  inwardly,  and  closed  his  eyes. 
Thenceforth,  in  his  esteem,  there  was  not 
only  pardon  for  his  intention,  but  virtue  in 
i's  fiilfilnient  ;  for  this  he  yearned  but  to  be 
alone.  From  this  moment  Romana's  pres- 
en^e  only  strengthened  his  desire  for  ven- 
geance ;  before  the  artist  had  touched  his 
generosity,  pained  him,  though  he  dreamed 
not  a  moment  of  reluiting  in  his  purpose. 

"  I  shall  not  go  at  present,  it  is  so  cool ; 
you  can,  I  suppose,  leave  me  here  ?  " 

"  Gladly,  that  is  to  give  you  any  comfort, 
loser  as  I  shall  be  of  your  company.  I  can- 
not stop  ;  I  am  sick  of  the  picture,  and  if  I 
remained  too  long  might  perhaps  destroy 
it." 

Strange  unconscious  utterance  of  its 
doom !  Rodomant  was  very  glad  to  think 
that  the  picture  would  not  be  regretted  by 
him.  Porphyro  could  not  suffer  for  its  loss 
too  much  to  please  him  ;  on  the  contrary. 


Romana  went  out  nodding,  with  a  fresh 
cigar  between  his  lips.  Rodomant  crept  in 
front  of  the  picture,  and  glared  at  it  as  like 
a  wild  beast  as  he  could  look  under  any  cir- 
cumstances. So  far  he  might  be  pardoned  ; 
for  an  honest  and  faithful,  not  to  say  ideal, 
lover,  the  portrait  was  sufficient  to  sadden, 
to  anger,  to  disgust.  Yet  clay  never  re- 
ceived more  homage,  devotion  so  exclusive. 
It  was  a  perfect  and  a  successful  study  of 
human  flesh  —  finer  than  Raphael,  "and 
ripened  beyond  Rubens.  It  was  a  iieshly 
exaggeration,  however,  of  Adelaida's  facial 
image,  whose  indwelling  and  out-shining 
spirit  it  was  that  made  it  fairest  of  the  fair. 
The  flesh  in  the  portrait  had  conquered  the 
spirit ;  not  a  ray  was  reflected  from  the  eyes, 
whose  living  sweetness  was  at  once  so  heav- 
enly and  so  human  ;  here  color  in  them  anni- 
hilated light.  The  frail  fairness  was  buried 
under  layers  of  elaborate  tint ;  the  faint  rose- 
shadows  were  represented  purpureal.  The 
slender  form  of  the  countenance,  too  sudden 
in  point  for  oval,  was  fitted  out  —  mellowed 
into  stoutness.  The  lips,  so  fine  and  curl- 
ing, were  painted  the  color  of  the  robin's 
breast  —  a  coral  orange — and  pouted  pertly. 
The  very  cheeks  looked  fruit-like,  as  they 
showed  against  the  sick  sere-background. 
Last  of  all  —  oh!  crowning  desecration,! 
in  the  hair  had  Romana  immortalized  his 
fancy  name,  as  if  on  oath.  "  TIae  golden 
net  to  entrap  the  hearts  of  men,"  fair  Por- 
tia boasted  even  in  her  "  counterfeit,"  not 
so  Adelaida.  Hers  was  conserved  in  care- 
fully imitated  red  —  perfect  red  ;  no  golden 
glow  nor  shadow.  Those  golden  hairs ! 
which  Rodomant  adored  and  cherished, 
which  were  precious  each  to  him  as,  to  the 
Father  of  all-seeing  love,  are  the  hairs  He 
numbers  alike  on  the  brightest  and  the  dull- 
est head. 

Rodomant  stood  about  ten  minutes,  fas- 
cinated at  once  by  the  hatred  with  which  the 
work  inspired  him,  and  the  delicious  terror 
of  his  own  anticipations.  Suddenly,  he  drew 
the  sword  which  he  carried  at  his  side, 
which  though  never  it  might  wave  in  battle, 
should  do  him  dearer  service.  It  flashed 
like  the  maiden  meteor  of  a  warrior's  fame, 
as  he  plunged  it  into  the  canvas,  not  once, 
but  again,  again,  and  yet  again,  till  it  was 
slashed  into  countless  ribbons  that  strewed 
the  floor  all  round  him. 

The  very  shock  of  accomplishment  seemed 
to  disturb  his  spirit,  like  a  stone  flung  sud- 
denly into  water.  In  wide  dull  rings  his 
senses  seemed  scattered  astray  —  closing 
nearer,  their  return  dazzled  him,  and  he  felt 
as  though  he  should  swoon.  When  calm 
returned,  his  perception  woke  fuUv  to  the 
fact.  What  fact  ?  What  phantom"?  Was 
he,  in  revenge  for  liis  vengeance,  haunted  ? 
Haunted  —  after  all.  Or  was  that  vision  the 
glimmering  of  all  we  love  restored  to  us, 
beyond  Death's  twilight  stream  ?  —  No 
ghost  —  it  was  herself  by  his  side.     Pale,  — 


182 


RUMOR. 


it  did  not  seem  with  the  colorless  tension  of 
terror,  but  sorrow  and  great  surprise,  and  a 
mingling  shadow  of  a  new,  an  unknown 
passion  ;  all  trembled  on  her  changing  face, 
while  a  mysterious  discomposure  pervaded 
her  air,  she  shrank  from  him  as  he  turned 
on  her  his  vivid  eyes,  whose  glances  ques- 
tioned as  they  glittered.  And  as  he  saw  her 
shrink,  his  wrath,  his  fresh  excitement  at 
her  sudden  presence,  quailed  to  anguish. 
Was  it  in  anger,  or  dislike,  she  placed  those 
few  feet  of  air  between  them?  Alas,  he 
recollected  in  a  flash  what  reason  had  the 
beloved  of  Porphyro,  ivho  also  loved  him,  to 
entertain  both  rage  and  detestation.  But 
both  were  so  unlike  her ;  why  then  that  dis- 
tance of  hers,  which  appalled  him  like  the 
chill  of  an  eternal  solitude  ? 

As  he  gazed  on  her  even,  he  sank  on  his 
knees,  then  bowed  his  head,  and  shut  out 
her  aspect  and  the  light,  with  both  his  hands 
•  fast  pressed  upon  his  burning  eyes. 

"  Pardon,  oh,  pardon,  have  mercy,  my 
princess.  I  was  not  master  of  myself;  I 
think  indeed  that,  if  I  was  not  mad,  I  had 
an  excuse  as  mighty." 

"  Pardon,  why  should  I  pardon  ?  you  have 
not  offended  me."  Her  voice  was  hushed 
and  inward  ;  his  pulses  leaped,  then  paused 
as  though  to  follow  her  meaning  into  her 
being's  recesses.  But  he  did  not  interpret 
the  tone,  his  honor  was  strung  too  high, 
nor,  with  all  his  absorbing  passion,  was  he 
even  a  moment  selfish. 

"  I  know  that  I  have  ofi'ended,  though  I 
know  not  how  far  I  am  pardonable.  More 
than  all,  it  angers  me  against  myself  that  I 
have  brought  you  here." 

"  Ah,  I  was  indeed  frightened  ;  I  thought 
the  place  was  on  fire,  the  windows  shone 
out  so  suddenly,  I  saw  them  from  my  win- 
dow in  the  convent.  And,  hoping  to  save 
the  picture,  I  came  directly." 

Still  the  low  small  voice,  the  manner 
hesitant  and  unfamiliar. 

"  To  save  the  picture  —  ah,  then  your 
highness  regrets  it  «<  a  work.  No,  no  — 
that  cannot  be,"  vivaciously,  as  he  rose,  and 
spurned  the  canvas  fragments  with  his  feet. 
"  Porphyro  is  balked  of  his  precious  posses- 
sion, knowing  not  its  value.  He  is  there- 
fore the  only  one  to  comjilain." 

"  I  do  not  understand  your  mood  —  nor 
why  you  came  —  nor  why  you  discuss  what 
it  is  impossible  for  you  to  defend."  Here 
she  assumed  a  haughtiness  too  obviously 
assumed  to  take  the  slightest  eflect  on  her 
hearer. 

"I  always  thought  you  just,  princess  — 
as  well  as  merciful  —  most  women  have  not 
sufl[icient  sense  to  form  judgments,  and  few 
are  merciful.  Being  both,  I  wonder  you 
condemn  unheard." 

"  Ho-w  can  there  be  any  thing  to  explain 
—  you  siin  j)ly  destroyed  the  work  of  a  brother 
artist,  because  it  displeases  your  own  taste, 
which  may,  like  mine  also,  be  incorrect." 


"  But  it  displea.ses  him  too  —  1  took  care 
to  find  out  that  —  and  also  what  it  is  worth, 
I  am  going  to  pay  him.  I  am  quite  certain, 
princess,  that  you  are  glad  it  is  destroyed ; 
but  you  are  afraid  to  tell  me  so.  If  llomana 
had  been  more  proud  than  vain  —  ]3roud  as 
a  musician,  —  /  should  not  have  had  to 
destroy  it." 

She  smiled,  and  turned  aside  with  her 
head  to  hide  something  l)esides  a  smile,  a 
blush,  very  slight,  but  which  her  gesture 
rendered  detectible  to  Rodomant,  as  the  sun 
in  heaven.  His  heart  quickened,  the  warm 
blood  rushed  over  his  frame,  his  brain  with 
the  reaction  brightened. 

"  You  are  not  angry  with  the  action,  I  can 
see.  You  are  only  displeased  with  me  for 
being  selfish.  I  have  had  some  cause  —  the 
wild  bird  loves  not  to  be  forced  into  its  cage 
forever,  without  license  to  fly,  even  for  half 
an  hour  at  a  time.  I  was,  however,  treated 
so." 

"Who  forced  you  into  a  cage  —  did  you 
not  come  here  of  your  own  free  will  ?  If 
not,  I  strangely  mistook  the  person  who  in- 
troduced you." 

"  Yes,  of  my  free  desire  —  but  now  it  has 
become  my  desire  —  my  resolution  and  ne- 
cessity to  depart.  And  how  can  I?  your 
father  has  ordered  me  to  remain." 

"  To  depart,"  she  whispered,  unconscious- 
ly, and  a  blank  distress  crossed  her  face, 
fleetly  as  a  cloud  over  the  sea,  but  too  dark, 
too  sudden,  above  all  too  natural,  not  to 
convey  its  full  impression  —  no  blank  one 
that.  Rodomant  felt  a  longing  to  die  that 
moment,  while  its  celestial  sweetness  im- 
pregnated his  heart.  There  might  have 
been  two  reasons  —  or  rather,  either  of  two 
might  have  been  the  motive  which  had 
bidden  her  to  banish  him. 

"  My  father  ordered  you  to  remain  ?  "  she 
said,  recovering  herself,  as  if  she  had  heard 
his  last  words  long  after  they  were  spoken 
—  who  knows  not  that  simple  and  common 
consequence  of  a  mood  preoccupied  ?  "  Why 
did  you  ask  him  ?  excuse  me.  Just  now  he 
is  particularly  nervous  about  any  change  in 
his  household  —  he  likes  not  new  i\ices  even, 
nor  that  old  ones  should  leave  him.  Jest  it- 
should  be  through  disaffection  that  they 
depart.  And  as  his  birthday  approaches  — 
this  birthday  —  he  is  anxious.  Could  you 
not  bear  to  stay  over  that  time  ?  on  his 
account,  of  course." 

Strange  plea  —  for  her  father !  was  it 
tlu'ough  pity  —  through  ])rescience  of  an  un- 
known doom  —  or  rather,  was  it  not  that  she 
desired  not  to  lose  this  audacious,  singular, 
but  one  true-souled  friend  of  her  lonely  life  ? 
Rodomant,  keen  to  distinguish  every  shade 
of  difference  between  her  former  and  her 
present  self,  thought  he  could  distinguish 
the  regret  she  sought  to  veil.  He  might 
have  been  certain  of  it  —  but  he  would  not 
allow  himself  time  to  realize.  He  believed 
this  behavior  of  his  sprang  from  honorable 


RUMOR. 


183 


pride;  it  did  but  rise  from  the  insatiable 
purity  of  his  passion,  which  would  not  have 
accepted  the  woman  he  adored,  unless  an 
overwhelming  preference  for  him  affected  her 
—  a  love  as  like  his  own  as  woman's  love 
could  be. 

"  I  could  not  stay  over  the  jubilee  ;  it  is 
that  I  wish  to  avoid ;  I  loould,  if  possible, 
depart  instantly.  That  was  my  intention  in 
d'istioying  the  ]ncture." 

"  Your  intention  in  destroying  the  picture  ? 
J  cannot  understand — Avhat  connection  has 
the  ])icture  with  your  departure  ?  how  could 
it  assist  you  ?  " 

"  I  thought  it  would  make  the  prince  so 
very  angry,  that  he  would  send  me  away  — 
that  he  would  deem  it  below  his  state  to 
punish  me  ;  indeed,  how  could  he  for  a  'deed 
without  a  name'?" 

The  princess  could  not  help  smiling  at 
this  notion ;  child-like  in  its  futility,  as  are 
such  notions  of  very  unworldly  men  ;  above 
all,  men  of  genius  ;  but  she  soon  fell  grave. 

"  I  am  indeed  sorry,  for  I  fear  it  will  not 
help  you  at  all.  He  would  not  care  suffi- 
ciently, or,  if  he  cared  in  the  least,  would 
attribute  your  nameless  deed  to  the  eccen- 
tricity that  has  so  often  served  you.  Why 
did  you  not  apply  to  me  ?  I  could  have 
written  to  Porphyro,  and  he  would  have  con- 
trived it ;  he  could  have  recalled  you  to  his 
person." 

"  I  do  not  want  to  be  recalled  to  his  per- 
son ;  I  should  then  be  doubly  bound.  I  want 
freedom,  and  I  must  have  it,  both  for  my 
heart  and  brain,  or  I  shall  die  —  or  else  go 
mad.  Shall  I  act  that  I  have  gone  mad, 
like  David  of  old,  princess  ?  " 

"  Hush  !  hush  !  "  she  exclaimed,  "  pray, 
do  not  jest  on  the  most  hideous  reality  that 
may  befall  us  —  you  or  me,  or  any  one.  Such 
mockery  sounds  like  a  challenge  to  that 
fearful  chance,"  She  shuddered,  then  fixed 
her  eyes  with  penetrating  majesty  on  Rodo- 
mant.  She  searched  his  face ;  her  scrutiny 
contained  no  sentiment,  but  it  seemed 
uneasy. 

"  Oh !  I  am  not  mad,"  said  Rodomant  ; 
"and  it  is  nonsense,  princess,  to  say  that 
any  person  might  become  so ;  it  is  much 
more  likely  that  the  whole  world  is  mad 
already,  as  some  philosophers  assert." 

"  Why  did  you  not  apply  to  me  ?  "  again 
she  repeated. 

"  Because  your  highness  ordered  me 
away."  Quite  sane  was  the  sarcastic  tone. 
She  blushed  again,  and  cast  her  eyes 
towards  the  pavilion  door.  He  stood  out 
far  from  it,  as  though  to  leave  the  pathway 
clear  for  her  departure,  if  she  chose  to  go  ; 
yet  she  staid.  And  now,  there  was  no  mys- 
tery in  her  expression,  for  the  benevolence 
of  her  heart  brimmed  up,  and  filled  her  eyes 
■with  dewy  kindness.  His  welfare,  if  he  left 
that  place,  what  of  it?  —  and  how,  if  he 
fared  ill  ? 

"  What  do  you  mean  to  do  —  pardon  me, 


I  do  not  inquire  curiously  —  in  case  you  go 
hence  ?  Where  would  you  go  ?  Not  that  I 
would  detain  you  ;  the  aberrations  of  genius 
like  yours  are  needful  to  it ;  it  is  ever  rest- 
less ;  but  I  should  not  like  to  think  you 
needed  any  thing  to  fill  up  the  measure  of 
your  daily  comfort." 

Had  not  Rodomant's  mood  been  fiery, 
he  must  have  melted  into  tears  ;  as  it  was, 
he  mocked  himself,  and  answered  drily, 
"  Thank  God,  I  am  no  sensualist,  nor  was  I 
bred  in  luxury,  which  I  detest.  I  have  a  - 
ready  had  too  much,  and  besides,  this  cli- 
mate enervates  my  ideas."  Pure  nonsense 
this,  of  course  ;  she  thought  it  bitter  truth. 

"  I  am  quite  sure  I  shall  be  able  to  find  a 
way  ;  take  no  forced  steps,"  she  said  ;  "  and 
if  I  may  advise  you,  it  will  be  to  remain 
until  the  jubilee." 

"  That  I  am  quite  determined  not  to  do ; 
why  would  you  have  me,  princess  ?  " 

"  I  would  not  have  you ;  it  is  for  your 
advantage." 

It  was  ;  she  knew  how  lavishly  all  who 
ministered  to  it  would  be  paid. 

"  But,  though  I  resolve  to  go,  I  will  be 
downright  honorable,  and  leave  a  mass  for 
the  solemnity,  or  rather,  send  it  here  after  I 
am  gone  ;  I  should  enjoy  that.  A  grand 
mass ;  a  solemn  mass  ;  it  shall  drop  its 
'  peace  '  from  heaven,  and  rend  heaven  with 
its  '  hosanna.'  Princess  !  "  he  exclaimed, 
after  an  instant's  pause  —  the  creative  mo- 
ment of  the  artist  —  during  which  she 
wavered  between  him  and  the  door.  At  the 
fresh  address,  she  stood  still,  however ; 
what  more  might  he  have  to  say?  Far, 
indeed,  was  it  from  her  to  expect  he  would 
allude  to  the  picture  again ;  she  knew  his 
moods  too  well ;  and  in  that  one  he  had 
absolutely  forgotten  it. 

"  I  have  the  greatest  inclination  to  cast 
my  '  peace  '  and  my  '  hosanna '  to-night ;  I 
can  only  do  it  at  the  organ  —  that  is,  as  I 
feel  now.     And  I  suppose  it  is  too  late." 

"  Not  the  least ;  you  have  often  played 
later." 

"  That  is  true." 

"  If  you  wish  it,  I  will  give  orders."  She 
passed  him  swiftly,  thankful  to  escape  for 
reflection ;  on  her,  indeed,  she  was  resolved 
the  responsibility  of  the  deed  he  had  done 
—  "without  a  name"  —  should  rest.  And 
her  whole  heart  was  bent  on  keeping  it  a 
secret  from  her  father,  whom  she  feared  for 
Rodomant,  though  she  had  avoided  infect- 
ing him  with  her  dread.  He  stood  some 
moments  in  a  waking  dream,  gazing  into  the 
void  she  had  filled  and  left ;  then  he  saun- 
tered slowly  down  the  steps,  and  through 
the  gardens  towards  the  chapel,  the  semi- 
darkness,  with  its  heart  of  balm,  enfolding 
his  dream  in  its  own  dream  more  deeply  still. 

All  was  ready  in  the  chapel ;  Adelai'da 
longed  to  divert  him  alike  from  the  past  and 
the  future.  With  all  her  anxiety,  and  all 
her    expectation,    this     meeting    him    had 


184 


KUMOR. 


touched  her  with  inexplicable  delight.  A 
deep  romance,  deeper  than  that  the  still  and 
passionate  night' ever  breathed  on  her  virgin 
spirit,  thrilled  her  through  aijd  through 
with  pleasure  she  could  not  name,  and  cared 
not  to  define.  Never,  in  her  life,  had  she 
positively  indulged  herself  till  this  hour. 
But,  before  Ilodomant  reached  the  organ, 
whose  lobby  had  a  separate  door  and  stair- 
case on  either  side,  she  established  herself 
in  the  darkest  corner  of  the  chapel,  and 
there  remained.  This  corner  was  immedi- 
ately beneath  the  organ-niche,  and  farthest 
from  the  altar  glare,  and  she  fully  intended 
to  go  out  and  return  to  the  convent,  before 
he  had  finished  playing. 

Souls  wrapped  in  sense  have  few  vagaries, 
or  rather,  little  inclination  to  indulge  in 
them :  Puck  and  Ariel  alike  pass  them  by 
on  dancing  step  or  delicate  wing.  They  are 
never  freak-ridden,  though  their  gross 
whims  gorge  themselves  in  sensual  secrecy. 
But  a  spiritual  nature  has  for  its  highest 
and  hardest  temptation  a  disposition  to  out- 
rage precedent — sometimes  propriety.  It 
is  sure  of  itself — very  likely  —  but  it  may 
endanger  the  machinery,  moral  or  tangible, 
which  it  employs  for  agent.  Again,  who 
has  not  dreamed  of  a  dream  ?  who  has  not 
remembered  dimly  what  yet  experience  con- 
tradicts ?  who  does  not  confound  fact  and 
imagination,  to  the  damage  of  his  reputa- 
tion for  truth  ? 

Rodomant  was  in  a  lawless  frame,  a  frame 
he  had  fixed  on  himself  by  his  outrage 
on  precedent ;  his  subsequent  excitement 
had  enchanted  him  more  wildly,  and  any 
number  of  imps  and  elves  were  ready  to 
rush  at  his  silent  word,  from  the  caverns  of 
his  haunted  brain.  Again,  he  felt  he  must 
spend  his  energy  ;  his  long  idleness  re-acted 
on  a  sudden  in  prodigious  strength  of  intel- 
lect, it  stirred  like  a  giant  refreshed.  Long 
time  ago  he  had  dreamed  —  he  had  entirely 
forgotten  it  vfas  a  fact  that  he  had  been  told 
—  that,  if  the  whole  force  of  that  organ  were 
put  out,  the  result  would  be  tremendous. 
He  had  also  dreamed  (that  is  been  assured) 
that  there  was  a  law  made  to  the  purpose 
that  the  whole  force  of  the  organ  was  never 
to  be  employed.  The  law  had  never  been 
broken,  except  once  —  but  there  his  memo- 
ries waxed  dim  and  indistinct ;  he  was  at  the 
mercy  of  his  own  volition,  which  resolved 
on  recalling  nothing  that  could  dissuade  him 
from  his  rash  and  forbidden  longing.  Un- 
known to  himself,  perhaps,  the  failure  of  his 
design  to  escape,  of  which  the  princess  had 
assured  him,  drove  him  to  the  crisis  of  a 
more  desperate  endeavor.  But,  whether  it 
was  so  or  not,  he  was  unconscious  of  it  — 
60  far  innocent.  He  sat  down,  believing 
himself  alone.  Had  he  been  aware  of  her 
presence,  that  would  have  beguiled  him 
to  safety,  brought  his  wandering  spirit  to 
her  heart.  Had  she  retained  courage  to 
stand  beside  him,  where  her  breath  might 


mingle  with  his  own,  instead  of  placing  her- 
self out  of  sight  —  of  hearing  —  out  of 
feeling  through  the  secret  sense  —  his  fatal 
sorrow  had  never  fallen  on  him,  for  he  had 
never  indulged  his  fatal  ecstasy. 

"  Softly,  softly,"  mocked  his  whisper  —  to 
himself — and  he  touched  alone  the  whisper- 
ing reeds.  Adelaida  held  her  breath,  and 
chid  the  beating  of  her  heart,  which  seemed 
louder  than  the  mellow  pulse  that  throbbed 
in  tune  above.  The  symphony  that  followed 
fell  like  a  mighty  universal  hush,  through 
which  the  clarionet  stop  chanted,  unuttered 
but  articulate  —  "  Give  to  us  peace."  Then 
the  hush  dissolved  into  a  sea  of  sighs  ; 
"  peace,  peace  !  "  They  yearned,  and  the  mild, 
deep  diapason  muttered  "peace."  She,  the 
one  listener,  felt  as  it  were  her  brain  fill  soft 
with  tears,  her  eyes  rained  them,  and  her 
heart,  whose  pulses  had  dropped  as  calm  as 
dew,  echoed  the  peaceful  longing  of  the  whole 
heart  of  humanity.  A  longing  as  peaceful  in 
its  expression,  as  the  peace  it  longed  for ;  the 
creation's  travail  seemed  spent  to  the  edge 
of  joy. 

Suddenly,  as  light  swept  chaos,  this  peace- 
ful fancy  was  disrupted ;  her  heart  ravislied 
from  its  rest,  its  calm  torn  from  it.  Down 
went  the  pedal  which  forced  the  whole  first 
organ  out  at  once,  and,  as  if  shouted  by  hosts 
of  men,  and  by  myriad  angels  echoed,  pealed 
the  great  Hosanna.  The  mighty  rapture  of 
the  princess  won  her  instantly  from  regret ; 
no  peace  could  be  so  glorious  as  that  praise ; 
and  vast  as  was  the  volume  of  sound,  the 
hands  that  invoked  it  had  it  so  completely 
under  control  —  voluntary  control  as  yet  — • 
that  it  did  not  swamp  her  sense  ;  her  spirit 
floated  on  the  wide  stream  with  harmonious 
waves  towards  the  measureless  immensity  of 
music  at  its  source.  To  reach  that  centre 
without  a  circle  —  that  perfection,  which  im- 
perfection shadows  not  —  that  unborn,  undy- 
ing principle,  which  art  tries  humbly,  falter- 
ingly,  to  illustrate  —  was  never  given  to  man 
on  earth  ;  and  tries  he  to  attain  it,  some  fate, 
of  which  the  chained  Prometheus  is  at  once 
the  symbol  and  the  warning,  fastens  to  hi' 
soul  for  life. 

The  princess  had  bowed  her  head,  and  the 
soft  and  plenteous  waters  of  her  eyes  had 
dried  up  like  dew  under  the  Midsummer  sun  ; 
yet  still  she  closed  her  eyes,  for  her  brain  felt 
fixed  and  alight  with  a  nameless  awe,  such 
as  passion  lends  presentiment. 

Suddenly,  in  the  words  of  Albericus,  theie 
burst  overhead  a  noise  like  the  roaring  of 
"  enormous  artificial  golden  lions,"  that  was 
the  drum  ;  less,  in  this  instance,  like  smitten 
parchment,  than  the  crackling  roll  of  clouds 
that  embrace  in  thunder.  The  noise  amazed 
himself —  yet  Rodomant  exulted  in  it,  his 
audacity  expanded  with  it,  broke  down  the 
last  barrier  of  reason.  He  added  stop  after 
stop  —  at  the  last  and  sixtieth  stop  he  unfet- 
tered the  whole  volume  of  the  wind.  That 
instant  was  a  blast  not  to  speak  ii-reverently, 


RUMOR. 


which  sounded  like  the  crack  of  doom.  To 
her  standing  stricken  underneath,  it  seemed 
to  explode  somewhere  in  the  roof  with  a 
shock  beyond  all  artillery  —  to  tear  up  the 
ground  under  her  feet,  like  the  spasm  of  an 
earthquake  —  to  rend  the  walls,  like  light- 
nings' electric  finger ;  and  to  shriek  in  her 
ringing  brain  the  Advent  of  some  implacable 
and  dreadful  judgment,  but  not  the  doom  of 
all  men  —  only  one,  which  doom,  alas'  she 
felt  might  be  also  hers  in  his. 

Ail  men  and  women,  within  a  mile,  had 
heard  the  shock  —  or  rather,  felt  it,  and  in- 
terpreted it  in  various  ways.  Only  the  prince 
himself,  who  Avas  standing  on  the  terrace, 
and  had  distinctly  perceived  the  rich  vibra- 
tion of  the  strong,  but  calm,  Hosanna,  inter- 
preted it  rightly  and  directly ;  more  than 
that,  his  animal  sagacity  told  him  it  was 
Rodomant,  who,  having  amused  himself,  was 
now  indulging  the  same  individual.  The 
capricious  never  pardon  caprice  easily,  the 
capricious-cruel,  never.  The  prince  said  no 
word  to  any  person,  but  set  off  by  himself, 
and  walked  fast  in  the  direction  of  the  chapel. 
Several  of  his  trained  followers  went  after 
him,  by  force  of  habit ;  they  had  been  taught 
to  protect  themselves  in  taking  care  of  him. 

To  Adelaida  there  was  something  more 
terrible  in  the  succeeding  silence,  than  in 
the  shock  of  sound  ;  it  had  ceased  directly, 
died  <irst  into  a  discordant  groan,  which, 
rising  to  a  scream,  was  still.  She  listened 
intensely  —  there  was  no  fall  of  rattling  frag- 
ments ;  the  vibration  had  been  insufficient,  or 
not  prolonged  enough,  to  injure  the  window 

—  that  had  been  her  first,  chief  fear.  This 
removed,  however,  she  felt  doubly,  desper- 
ately anxious.  Why  did  he  not  come  down, 
or  speak,  or  stir?  The  men  employed  to 
feed  the  monstrous  machine  with  wind,  had 
all  rushed  away  together  by  the  back  ladder 
through  which  they  entered,  hence  the  cause 
of  the  shrieking  groan  and  silence.  He  was 
then  alone  —  for  he  knew  not  that  she  was 
there.     Oh,  that  he  would  give  some  sign. 

In  a  few  minutes  a  sign  was  given,  but 
not  from  him.  The  princess  heard  the  grind- 
ing of  the  immense  door  near  the  altar  ;  it 
was  opened ;  steps  entered  hurriedly.  She 
heard,  next  instant,  her  father's  voice.  Im- 
pregnated with  icy  ire,  low  with  smothered 
hatred,  distinct  with  the  only  purpose  he 
fe\e]  entertained  —  punishment.  In  a  mo- j 
ment  she  had  formed  her  purpose,  herself  | 
forgotten,  save  as  its  needful  agpnt.  She  j 
flew  with  feet  thuit  gave  no  echo,  up  the  stair 
on  her  side  of  the  lobby.  Rodomant  was  I 
sitting  dead  still,  with  his  face  in  his  hands 

—  they  looked  rigid ;  the  veins  in  his  fore- , 
head,  as  it  showed  above  his  hands,  were  ■ 
swollen  and  stood  out,  but  colorless  as  the  | 
keys  that  stretched  beneath  ;  his  calmness 
chilled  her  blood.  She  thought  him  dead, 
and  all  within  her,  that  lived,  seemed  to  pass 
out  of  her  in  the  imll  —  nay,  the  power  also, 
to  restore  him.     She  grasped  his  arm.     He  . 

21 


185 


was  not  dead,  th^h,  fcr  be  sighed  —  an  awful 
sigh ;  it  shook  hiNbJ^f*  a  light  reed  in  the 
tempest ;  he  shudderea  from  head  to  foot ;  he 
leaned  towcerds  her,  as  if  about  to  faint,  but 
never  removed  his  close-locked  hands  from 
his  eyes.  Half-supporting  him  to  an  inevita- 
ble instant,  she  heard  feet  begin  to  mount  the 
lobby-stairs  one  side.  She  dragged  Rodomant 
from  his  seat  —  drew  him  down  the  stairs  the 
other  side  (fortunately,  next  her  as  she  stood), 
and  in  half  a  minute  they  had  passed  through 
the  door  at  the  bottom,  into  the  air  and 
moonlight.  Doubly  needful  now  was  haste 
—  she  whispered  to  him  —  he  made  no 
answer ;  still  resistless  as  an  infant,  and 
heavy  as  a  grown  man  under  the  weight  of 
sickness.  She  could  not  have  so  supported 
him  ;  her  spirit  cried  out  in  anguish,  and  as 
her  cry  left  her  lips,  Rosuelo  started  from  the 
entrance  of  the  shadowy  path,  where,  the 
first  night  she  ever  met  Rodomant,  they  had 
wandered  towards  the  chapel.  Rosuelo  had 
been  beguiled  by  the  music  to  loiter  on  his 
way  home  from  the  sacristy,  where  his  even- 
ing duties  had  taken  him  ;  he  had  also  seen 
the  princess  enter  the  chapel  stealthily. 
And,  when  the  great  crash  sounded,  he  had 
rushed  to  the  door  ;  but  seeing  her  stand 
there  silent,  had  again  withdrawn.  Nor 
could  he  have  said  why  he  lingered  in  the 
tree-shadows ;  it  was  one  of  those  happy 
chances,  that  befall  the  pure  in  their  strong 
need. 

"  I  cannot  tell  what  has  happened,"  said 
Adelaida,  quite  possessed  of  herself,  or  rath- 
er oblivious  of  herself  in  her  anxiety ; 
"  but  I  am  sure  he  is  ill  —  and  my  father 
came  in.  You  understand  how  dangerous  it 
would  be.  I  want  to  have  him  carried  to 
the  convent ;  it  is  the  only  place  you  know." 

Rosuelo  literally  obeyed  her ;  he  lifted 
Rodomant,  who  was  not  more  than  two 
thirds  his  height,  though  the  two  men  were 
equally  spare.  Strange  to  say,  it  struck  the 
princess  unpleasantly  —  Rodomant  neither 
struggled  nor  remonstrated  —  she  had  been 
afraid  of  both.  Rosuelo,  at  her  entreaty, 
strode  ;  she  ran  after  him,  and,  when  they 
approached  the  convent,  outstripped  him, 
and  knocked  loudly  at  the  large  door  in  the 
wall.  The  portress  did  not  wait  to  peep 
(she  conceived  some  person  in  sore  distress 
had  knocked)  but  she  undi-ew  the  bolts 
directly.  It  was  but  barely  time.  As  Rosu- 
elo entered  with  his  burden,  the  prince  him- 
self, with  his  gentlemen  (all  of  whom  had 
detected  the  princess  with  Rodomant,  and 
their  flight  from  the  lobby),  might  be  seen, 
about  a  hundred  feet  distant,  approaching. 
But  the  gate  of  the  sanctuary  closed  —  they 
could  not  enter  there,  and  all  turned  back 
discomfited. 

Rosuelo,  at  her  request,  carried  Rodomant 
into  the  princess's  room,  rather  larger  than 
the  rest  of  the  convent  cells,  but  furnished 
exactly  like  them.  Placed  on  a  chair,  he 
still  covered  his  eyes  with  his  hands.     The 


186 


RUMOR. 


priest  addressed  him;  he  did  not  answer. 
A  swifter  terror  than  suspense  struck  through 
her  ;  she  beheved  his  reason  had  fled  —  not 
that  he  was  mad,  but  foolish.        ' 

"  Send  my  own  physician  instantly,"  — 
she  ordered  Rosuelo,  "  and  pray,  return  with 
him." 

Rosuelo  had  never  been  commanded  by 
her  until  that  night ;  it  was  delicious  after 
the  long  coldness  —  the  lofty  independence 
of  himself  she  had  maintained  for  years  ;  he 
flew.     Then  Adelai'da  feared  not   to  address 

—  if  needful,  to  soothe  —  her  patient  ;  she 
could  not  have  made  the  slightest  demon- 
stration of  interest  in  presence  of  another 
man.  She  laid  first  her  gentle  hands  on  his  ; 
hers  bathed  in  warmth  from  exercise,  his 
struck  to  them  like  death.  She  had  only 
clasped  his  arm  before  ;  as  hand  met  hand 

—  or  touch  thrilled  touch,  he  shivered  —  his 
grasping  fingers  relaxed  in  their  hold  on 
each  othr  r,  but  closed  on  hers.  As  soft  and 
nerveless  as  the  pressure  of  a  dying  hand, 
love  could  not  fear  it,  else  she  had  withdrawn 
hers  —  for  she  loved.  Alas  !  she  knew  it  by 
that  yearning  after  him  in  the  darkness  of 
the  hour,  that  thrusting  back  of  all  idea  of 
danger,  that  dread,  intense  desire  to  remain 
close  to  him  in  the  mysterious  woe  she  felt, 
before  he  uttered  it.  Yet  she  did  not  speak ; 
if  he  had  been  actually  dying,  she  could  not 
have  spoken  first  to  save  him.  She  waited 
long  —  she  listened  to  his  breathing,  inter- 
mitted with  tearless  sobs.  At  last  he  gasped 
violently,  a  cold  tear  dropped  on  her  hand, 
and  he  thrust  it  rudely  from  him. 

"  God  has  taken  my  punishment  into  his 
own  hands ;  yet  I  defied  not  Him,  only 
something  made  by  man  and  man,  himself" 
He  spoke  loudly,  yet  in  halting  words,  Avith 
gaps  of  silence  between  each  phrase  ;  then 
stared  wildly  round  him,  and  clapped  both 
his  hands  upon  his  ears  —  withdrew  them  — 
closed  his  ears  with  his  fingers,  then  dropped 
his  hands,  and  cast  on  her  a  glance  that  im- 
plored —  that  demanded  —  the  whole  pity 
of  her  heart. 

"  Have  mercy  !  "  were  his  words  ;  "  I  have 
lost  my  hearing,  and  it  is  forever." 

She  burst  into  tears.  "  Weep !  weep  !  " 
he  cried,  in  the  unmeasured  tones  of  deaf- 
ness.    "  Ah  !  I  can  bear  it  while  you  weep." 

She  feared,  she  knew  not  what,  but  his 
Yoice  dried  her  tears.  She  gazed  on  him 
with  recovered  calm  ;  she  thrust  inwards  her 
intolerable  sadness  ;  she  even  smiled. 

"  Oh !  that  cannot  be  —  or,  if  so,  it  will 
pass ;  you  are  only  stunned.  It  was  the 
noise,  or  rather  your  being  so  near  it." 

"  Things  always  come,  if  we  say  we  can- 
not bear  them.  So  used  I  to  think  of  this. 
I  do  not  hear  my  own  voice  —  that  is  lit- 
tle ;  but  listen,  I  cannot  hear  yours  —  what 
then  ?  " 

A  question  she  could  not  answer.  She 
came  close  to  his  ear,  and  sang  into  it  her 
highest  note  of  all  —  such  a  note  as,  in  the 


hearing,  seems  to  cleave  the  brain.  She  saw 
by  the  expression  of  his  face  in  profile  that 
he  heard  her  not, 

"  Why  did  you  send  away  that  man  ?  I 
would  ask  him  to  let  me  go  with  him  until 
to-morrow  —  then  I  go  ;  for  here  I  cannot 
stay.     Why  was  I  brought  here  ?  " 

She  went  to  her  writing-table  in  the  corner, 
and  wrote,  "  You  are  here,  because  here  only 
safe  ;  these  gates  are  closed  against  all  but 
women  and  the  afflicted.  I  sent  the  father 
for  my  own  physician  ;  he  may,  perhaps  re- 
Heve  you  instantly." 

She  brought  the  paper  to  Rodomant ;  he 
read  it,  tore  it  in  two,  and  said  sternly,  "  If 
any  doctor  comes  near  me,  I  will  knock  him 
down ;  I  am  going  to  my  native  place.  I 
suppose  I  have  escaped  this  way  ? "  with 
strong  and  bitter  emphasis.  She  turned  to 
her  table,  for  she  could  not  face  him  in  that 
sterner  grief.  "  I  will  not  stay  here,"  he 
continued  fiercely  ;  "  not,  if  you  leave  me. 
I  saw  in  your  eyes  that  you  said  to  your 
heart,  '  This  afflicted  shall  remain  in  my 
room,  rest  in  my  bed,  be  caged,  like  my 
bird,  in  bonds  sweeter  than  Heaven's  lib- 
erty.' "  In  truth,  a  large  and  twilight-tinted 
bird,  which  had  been  roosted  on  a  perch  in 
one  corner,  had  raised  its  head  from  under 
its  wing  at  the  unusual  noise,  and  was 
staring  at  Rodomant  with  a  bird's  own 
glance  —  the  brightest  and  softest,  while  the 
most  cunning  in  the  world.  "  That  would 
be  a  crime,"  said  he,  continuing ;  "  if  I 
breathed  Avhere  you  had  breathed,  I  should 
breathe  you ;  if  my  head  touched  your 
pillow,  your  dreams  would  blossom  round  it ; 
and  I  have  no  right  to  gather  those  celestial 
flowers,  nor  to  feel  their  fragrance ;  I  will 
therefore  go." 

"  You  must  stay  till  I  have  spoken  with 
my  father."  She  wrote  these  words  —  and 
not  daring  to  wait  for  his  reply,  she  left 
the  chamber  hastily,  and  locked  the  door. 
She  went  directly  to  the  prince,  and  was 
with  him  but  a  few  minutes  —  quitted  him 
without  the  least  remaining  fear  of  his  in- 
tercepting Rodomant's  departure  —  though 
she  still  hoped  to  detain  him. 

Such  hope  she  soon  proved  futile  —  for, 
when  she  returned  with  the  physician,  Rod- 
omant deliberately  knocked  him  down  — ■ 
so  far  consoling  her  with  the  conviction  of 
his  undiminished,  if  temporarily  suspended, 
strength.  The  physician  retired,  hurt  and 
angry.  Then  she  passed  two  hours  in  written 
expostulations — defied  by  him  ;  it  required  in 
fact  some  courage  for  a  woman  he  had  so  ad- 
dressed as  before  she  left  him  this  last  time, 
to  endeavor  to  detain  him  —  even  for  his 
benefit.  He  was  more  than  obstinate  —  he 
was  stubborn  —  he  treated  his  new  trouble 
lightly,  indeed,  laughed  it  to  scorn  —  "  the 
surgeons  of  his  own  country  would  cure  hira 
in  a  month." 

Adelaida  slept  not,  nor  went  to  bed  that 
night  —  though  she  left  him  alone  for  long. 


RUMOR. 


18^ 


With  incredible  quickness,  she  made  ar- 
rangements for  his  safe  and  speedy  journey 

—  in  one  of  her  own  carriages,  with  her  own 
servants  —  he  might  have  had  Rosuelo  for  a 
companion,  but  repudiated  all  companion- 
ship. In  fact,  if  Adelai'da  had  not  made  it 
the  very  greatest  favor  to  herself  that  he 
should  so  depart,  he  would  have  gone  by  the 
common  mode  of  transit,  despite  his  infir- 
mity and  in  contempt  of  it.  Just  after  sun- 
rise, she  returned  to  him,  and  put  her  own 
tablets  into  his  hand.  "  You  can  then  write 
what  you  please,  and  so  communicate  with 
any  one,"  she  wrote  on  them,  then  added, 
"  I  have  something  else  to  give  you."  She 
left  his  side,  and  went  into  the  corner.  To 
its  perch  the  bird  now  clung,  a  ball  of 
feathers,  its  head  pillowed  under  its  wing. 
At  her  soft  touch  it  woke,  eyed  her  sleepily, 
but  still  knowingly,  and  flew  on  her  wrist. 
So  she  carried  it  to  the  window,  where  Rod- 
oraant  stood.  And  wrote  —  the  bird  mean- 
time billing  her  lip,  and  uttering  soft,  long, 
Liw  murmurs.  Rodomant  looked  at  it  invol- 
untarily—  or  rather,  eyed  jealously  its  bill 

—  felt  inclined  to  pluck  it  from  her  wrist. 
It  was  a  peculiar,  not  brilliant-tinted  bird  — 
its  color  neutral,  but  slightly  changeful  in 
the  light  —  its  throat  circled  by  a  ring  of 
opalescence.  Its  eyes  vivid,  like  all  birds' 
eyes  —  but  expressive   more  than  any  other 

—  it  looked  out  of  them,  as  though,  instead 
of  chirp  or  coo,  it  might  at  any  moment  speak. 

"  I  give  you  my  carrier-dove,"  she  wrote 
with  trembling  hand,  and  downcast  eyes.  "  I 
need  not  ask  you  to  care  for  it  —  it  will 
make  you  love  it.  Few  have  been  its  jour- 
neys yet,  and  I  hope  they  will  be  few,  for  I 
do  not  wish  it  to  bring  me  news,  unless 
you  are  in  trouble,  and  I  can  help  you.  My 
servants  will  bring  me  word  of  your  arrival. 
In  an  extremity,  great  or  slight,  if  I  can  be 
of  use  —  only  if  I  can  be  of  use — send  me 
by  it  a  letter.  Send  it  to  no  other  person,  or 
it  will  not  return  to  me.  Keep  it  continually 
with  you,  and  do  not  let  it  fly,  except  hither. 
I  shall  leave  the  window  open  ever,  so  that, 
should  I  be  absent,  it  may  enter  safely,  and 
await  me.  But  never  send  me  letters  by  any 
other  means,  or  messenger." 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

None  who  have  treated  of  love  as  love 
first,  and  second,  which  is  the  last,  as  the 
first  is  its  fleeting  symbol,  have  exactly  de- 
fined the  metaphysical  process  by  which  the 
moral  conscience  suffers,  in  such  instances, 
as  much  as  the  self-wounded  spirit  and  sud- 
denly —  or  slowly  —  dispassioned  heart. 

A  pure  nature  can  command  all,  save  its 
instincts  and  its  impulses  —  in  such  a  nature 
certainly  as   pure.     How  many  have   erred, 


I  if  not  committed  actual  crime,  in  doing  vio- 
I  lence  to  those  first  signs  of  the  Creator's 
presence  in  the  creature.  If  a  man  or  wo- 
man of  uncultured  rectitude  and  blood-im- 
planted honor  —  quahties  requiring  no  nile 
of  action  —  happens  to  form  a  wrong  opinion, 
to  adopt  a  judgment  rashly,  or  show  intol- 
erance of  another's  prejudice,  how  readily 
such  a  person  will,  when  shmvn  the  error, 
confess  it  —  repair  it  by  renunciation.  Bit 
if  such  a  one  errs  in  love  —  discovers  his  or 
her  first  confidence  to  have  been  misplaced 
—  their  first  instinct  thrust  back  and  con- 
founded by  the  unworthiness  of  the  nature 
towards  which  it  sprang  —  they  sufl'er  as  if 
from  sin:  the  heart  is  oppressed  with  its 
emptiness  —  no  burden  is  weightier  than 
that  void,  and  the  intelligence  shrinks  from 
the  face  of  the  discovered  truth,  as  though 
it  were  lurking  falsehood. 

So  it  was  Avith  Adelaida ;  her  fijst  love  had 
been  instinctively,  generously  bestowed.  Her 
first  love,  some  say  such  is  the  purest ;  it 
may  be  in  the  common  sense,  in  which  the 
infant  is  more  innocent  than  the  youth,  or 
the  dew  more  tender  and  imperceptible  of 
exhalation  than  the  warm  wide-dropping 
shower  that  feeds  the  spring.  But  purer 
than  any  other  sentiment  born  in  her  bosom, 
it  could  not  be,  for  she  possessed  one  of 
those  characters  which  are  unsusceptible  of 
worldly  taint,  and  as  unearthly  as  a  heaven- 
aspiring  child  of  earth  can  be.  Had  Por- 
phyro,  when  he  first  experienced  the  genuine 
passion  with  which  she  inspired  him,  been 
direct  and  generous  in  expression,  as  in  feel- 
ing, he  might  have  possessed  eternally  as 
much  of  her  as  could  to  him  for  eternity 
have  been  united.  For  she  would  have  had 
no  "  fear,"  her  power  of  loving  was  too 
mighty.  And  the  only  dread,  which  would 
have  deterred  her,  would  not  then  have  pre- 
sented itself  to  her  soul ;  the  shadow  of  his 
innate  and  subtle  worldliness  had  not  fallen 
on  it  then,  as  now  it  was  destined  to  fall,  and 
chirken  all  her  peace  —  she  thought,  for  life  ; 
she  feared,  for  immortality. 

She  was,  if  an  imperfect  being,  a  perfect 
woman.  She  had  the  feminine  and  exquis- 
itely keen  pride,  without  which  passion  in  a 
woman  is  the  characteristic  the  most  self- 
harassing  and  man-perplexing  of  the  whole 
circle  of  her  attributes.  .  So,  in  pro])ortion 
to  Porphyro's  defection,  in  proportion  to  her 
painful  perception  of  it,  was  the  reaction  of 
her  pi'ide.  Yet,  for  that  very  reason,  in  the 
silence  of  her  heart  she  carried  on  a  vehe- 
ment resistance  of  it ;  called  it  selfishness 
absorbing  —  arrogant  hope  —  and  envious 
fondness.  Every  cruel  imputation  she  could 
devise  on  her  own  account  she  lavished  on 
it,  that  saving,  if  not  healing,  quality.  And 
severely  as  that  very  pride  she  despised  in 
herself  was  racked  by  the  gradual  discovery 
of  Porjihyro's  neglect ;  it  was  a  drearier  grief 
to  her  that  she  felt  ^e.s's  sorrow,  if  more  an- 
noyance, as   his   prolonged  negligence  waa 


]88 


P-UMOR. 


lengthened  out,  instead  of  profounder  trouble,  | 
Avhich  should  occupy  too  much  for  annoyance 
to  find  a  place. 

If,  in  her  ideal  imagination,  she  placed 
Porphyro  too  highly  "  on  her  bosom's 
throne,"  and  worshipped,  in  the  first  instp,nce, 
she  was  not  only  to  be  excused,  but  admired. 
A  girl  educated"  in  a  court  the  most  delicate 
and  the  most  depraved,  in  secret  licensed 
out  of  the  pale  of  law,  custom,  purity ;  and 
o])enly  the  most  fastidious  and  coldly  fine  ; 
with  V  master  who  had  exhausted  every  de- 
vice b;J  )f  crime,  and  all  appetites  but  cru- 
elty. This  girl  rendered  incorruptible  by  her 
own  essence,  as  a  star's  light  is  intact  by 
cloud  or  fog,  intercepting  it  from  man ;  or 
as  the  heroes  of  celestial  fable  walked  in  the 
fiery  furnace  unconsumed.  Porphyro  was  at 
once  the  noblest  specimen  of  character,  and 
the  person  the  most  passionate  she  had  ever 
met  —  when  first  she  saw  him.  He  was,  in 
fact,  so  noble  and  so  passionate,  that  he  was 
fit,  as  he  was  destined,  to  rule  in  happiness 
and  safety  millions  for  earth ;  to  enhance 
their  worldly  prosperity,  and  increase  their 
portion ;  perhaps,  to  moralize  the  mass,  a 
Catholic  influence,  if  true,  more  precious  than 
a.  false  religion. 

But  this  pale,  delicate,  and  vast-souled 
woman  was  beyond  his  rule.  Had  he  sus- 
pected this,  he  would  have  fascinated  her 
straightway  into  his  own  arms,  and  l/ien,  had 
he  proven  "the  master  of  her  life  at  first,  and 
even  for  long,  he  would  have  ended  in  being 
her  tyrant,  through  no  fault  of  his,  nor  hers, 
simply  because  such  a  union  would  have  been 
imperfect,  unbalanced  mentally,  while  between 
their  spirits  there  would  have  been  disunion. 

Now  she  suffered  in  losing — not  Por- 
phyro's  love,  for  she  possessed  that  still, 
though  she  knew  it  not,  —  but  in  losing  her 
own  love  for  him.  The  "  wounded  spirit 
who  can  bear  ?  "  and  hers  was  lacerated 
with  her  own  inconstancy ;  her  faith,  self- 
ruptured,  bled.  She  felt  the  pining  for  the 
lost  impulse;  the  unresponsive  instinct  — 
which,  what  great  soul  does  not  experience, 
in  first-love's  lapse  from  life  ?  Then,  between 
that  self-charged  fault  of  hers,  and  the  next 
necessity  of  her  being,  came  a  blank  —  a 
chasm  in  her  thoughts  that  she  would  not 
overleap  in  fancy  —  a  pause  in  passion  she 
iared  not  fill ;  for  beyond  lay  an  unseen,  un- 
known prospect,  which  presented  such  allur- 
ing terrors  and  dread  delights  as  Death,  in 
the  midst  of  its  existence,  shows  the  broken 
heart,  Avhich  has  given  its  love's  angel  to 
Heaven,  as  its  idol  to  the  grave  —  yet  can- 
not die.  Rodomant  was  gone  :  till  he  went, 
she  knew  not  vs'hat  his  presence  signified. 
He  was  as  if  dead  to  her  ;  he  would  never  re- 
turn —  she  knew  him  well  enough  to  know 
that.  And  if  he  had  remained,  how  then  ? 
he  would  have  been  still  dead  to  her  —  she 
would  have  so  determined ;  and  she  deter- 
mined on  it  still,  so  long  as  Porphyro  re-  | 
mained  himself,  whether  true  to  her  or  not.  | 


Had  Rodomant  let  him  alone,  had  he  forced 
inwards  his  convictions,  instead  of  enunciat- 
ing them,  he  would  have  saved  her  pain  — 
and  weariness  besides. —  but  that  was  not  his 
way.  Still  she  held  them  as  calumnies,  be- 
cause in  the  letter  they  were  unfulfilled ;  she 
awaited  their  fulfilment,  or  their  denial  in 
the  face  of  all  society  —  this  alone  could  set 
her  free. 

Time,  the  ruthless  and  the  healing,  mean- 
time swe])t  on  with  unheard  wing  and  silent 
pulse.  The  prince,  in  default  of  Rodomant, 
had,  instead  of  a  single  successor  to  him, 
called  about  him  a  select  number  of  musicians 
on  trial ;  not  that  he  meant  to  retain  them, 
or  any  particular  star  of  them  —  he  had  not 
made  up  his  mind,  nor  did  he  contemplate 
the  future  beyond  a  given  prospective  point 
—  the  pageant  of  his  jubilee.  It  is  astonish- 
ing to  witness  the  quantity  of  means,  the  im- 
mense pains,  and  the  eager  anticipations,  be- 
stowed on  such  pageants  in  honor  of  single 
individuals ;  it  surprises  more  to  reflect  on 
the  deficiency  of  entertainments  in  honor  of 
those  who  lack  daily  food  as  well  as  feast- 
days  ;  the  poor,  at  least  sacred  as  the  person 
of  royalty.  And  even  the  ])ageants,  which 
only  serve  to  gild  the  "  refined  gold  "  of  state 
and  eminent  station,  how  inevitably  they  fail 
to  beguile,  to  astonish,  to  gratify  —  with 
their  spiritless  symbols,  their  effete  designs, 
their  precedents  subbm^^  in  shabbiness.  How 
unHke  the  festival  nowhere  celebrated  except 
in  eternal  story,  to  which  the  halt,  blind,  and 
dumb  were  gathered,  and  the  wanderers  in 
fields  and  hedges  compelled  —  not  coldly 
bidden. 

However,  the  prince  was  full  of  his  "  white 
day  "  to  come,  as  it  would  have  become  a 
child  to  be,  or  an  heir  on  the  edge  of  major- 
ity. It  would  seem  as  though  the  presenti- 
ments experienced  by  the  good  as  to  their 
own  fate  in  life,  or  their  life's  end,  were  ce- 
lestial indications  ;  for  questionable  charac- 
ters are  seldom  so  haunted  —  bad  men  never, 
except  in  fiction,  or  history,  which  is  oftenest 
fiction  baptized  fact.  However,  this  bad 
prince  and  worse  man  had  no  presentiment ; 
he  sneered  openly  at  the  old  prophecy  which 
might  have  suggested  one  ;  —  yet  a  very  crit- 
ical casuist  might  have  detected  a  dormant 
superstition  in  the  arrangement,  which  post- 
poned the  procession  to  the  cathedral,  for 
the  sacred  phase  of  the  proceedings,  until 
one  hour  after  noon,  noon  being  the  hour  of 
his  bu'th.  The  great  organ  had  been  removed 
to  the  cathedral,  greatly  to  its  own  detri- 
ment, though  no  one  cared  to  say  so,  not 
even  the  selected  player,  of  whom  there  was 
no  fear  that  he  would  be  seized  with  Rodo- 
mant's  furor  to  try  its  power ;  his  hands 
were  not  strong  enough.  As  for  the  grand 
mass,  it  was  a  conglomerate  composition  of 
ten  individuals  —  that  of  Rodomant  had  van- 
ished, like  a  vapor,  with  its  own  phantom 
outline. 

The  jubilee   dawned  in   a  briUjant  sky 


RUMOR. 


189 


though  it  Avas  one  of  the  days  of  Belvidere 
farthest  from  the  light  of  midsummer.  Very 
early  in  the  morning,  a  travelling-carriage 
stojiped  at  the  largest  hotel  in  the  city,  Avhose 
environs  formed  the  palace-precinct.  It  was 
the  hotel  at  which  Romana  halted  till  he 
found  lodgings  —  lodgings  he  had  lately  left. 
And  here  be  he  dismissed,  with  the  notice, 
that  the  very  day  before  he  left  Belvidere, 
he  received  notes  for  an  amount  of  money  he 
could  not  recollect  as  due  to  him,  but  which 
he  was  obliged  to  keep,  because  he  knew  not 
to  whom  he  should  return  it.  By  this  time 
he  wa.s  studying  the  scales  of  crocodiles  in 
sultr)  Nile  —  blending  simoom-splendors 
with  mirage-mists  upon  his  palette,  and 
dreaming  archaic  pictures  in  the  shadow  of 
the  Pyramids. 

The  travelling-carriage  which  stopped  at 
the  hotel,  that  festal  morning,  was  evidently 
a  hired  one  :  its  wheels  were  crazy,  its  var- 
nish blistered,  and  the  blinds,  drawn  closely 
down,  were  green,  singed  sear  by  sun-fire ; 
the  horses,  also,  were  like  gray,  reeking  skel- 
etons. The  postilions,  clothed  in  rags,  grum- 
bled in  an  unknown  tongue,  which  yet  dif- 
fered not  in  its  inflexions  from  the  language 
of  Belvidere,  as  would  have  differed  the  Ger- 
man or  the  PjUglish.  Their  grumbling,  how- 
ever, ceased  on  their  treatment  by  the  late 
occupant  of  the  carriage,  now  descended ;  it 
was,  evidently,  a  liberal  one,  for  they  with- 
drew their  lirown  hands,  grinning  with  double 
ivory  smiles,  such  as  only  Italians  flash 
against  the  light.  The  gentleman,  who  wore 
a  cloak  of  semi-theatrical  cut,  and  a  hat  very 
fashionably  but  irreverently  slouched,  was, 
however,  not  the  only  traveller,  for  he  re- 
turned to  the  carriage,  opened  the  door,  and 
handed  out  a  lady,  to  whom  he  whispered  as 
she  touched  the  topmost  step,  "  Put  up  your 
veil  now  —  there  is  no  more  to  fear  —  we 
are  at  last  unknoicn  !  "  And  instantly,  with 
hasty  hands  and  a  drooping  of  the  head  as 
she  did  so,  she  snatched  up  her  veil,  and 
stood  beside  him.  All  the  men  round,  the 
hostess,  even  the  postboys,  who  had  only 
seen  her  veiled,  stood  back  in  amazement  at 
her  beauty.  Such  faces  were  not  seen  in 
Belvidere  —  only  the  face  of  their  future 
ruler  was  as  fair  ;  —  but  the  princess,  with 
her  lily-paleness  and  still  star-splendors, 
diff'ered  as  much  from  this  aspect  as  the  star 
and  the  lily  differ  from  the  diamond  and  the 
rose. 

Geraldine's  bloom  had  returned  to  her 
renewed  beauty  with  the  excitement  of  the 
hour  ;  her  old  medicine  had  befriended  her 
besides.  Geraldi  knew  that  he  had  dragged 
her  thither,  that  he  had  left  her  no  will,  that 
he  had  tortured  in  gaining  her  so  far,  yet 
also  knew  that  yet  he  had  not  gained  her. 
Therefore  was  it,  that,  for  every  few  drops 
of  opium  she  had  taken,  he  had  drained 
draughts  of  brandy  —  not  adulterated  brandy 
—  but   above   proof — pure.      Geraldi   sent 


away  the  carriage,  and  desired  the  landlord, 
in  guide-book  phrase,  to  send  him  an  inter- 
preter. Such  a  one  was  sought,  and  afte. 
some  pains  found ;  a  person  filling  one  of 
the  lowest  offices,  as  cleanser  of  the  stables. 
By  a  judicious  sign  or  two,  Geraldi  discov- 
ered a  certain  masonry  to  exist  between 
them  —  a  masonry  invented  long  since  the 
erasure  of  Solomon's  Temple ;  in  fact, 
the  man  was  a  republican,  in  voluntary, 
though  necessary,  exile,  and  Geraldi  hailed 
his  presence  and  fraternity  as  a  fortunate 
omen.  It  socm  shifted,  however,  to  the 
dark  side  of  fate,  for  Geraldine,  who  was 
watching  the  conference,  and  listening, 
though  she  could  not  hear,  for  they  whis- 
pered, Avas  terrified  at  his  changing  face, 
trembled  at  his  stamping  foot.  His  anger 
turned  the  current  of  her  blood,  though  it 
was  not  with  her  he  was  wroth  ;  her  heart 
beat  suddenly  and  strong,  her  eyes  burned 
to  weep,  yet  dared  not ;  without  his  tender- 
ness, when  it  dissolved  from  his  face  one 
moment,  the  soft  mystery  of  hope  turned  to 
a  cloud  of  shame,  and  she  was  walking  in 
that  shadow. 

In  the  midst  of  the  gloom,  he  came  back 
to  her ;  he  smiled,  and  the  shadow  vanished. 
She  was  no  longer  afraid,  and  she  believed 
her  shame  had  been  a  fancy,  because  she 
faced  him  instead ;  and  certainly  he  OAvned 
no  shame,  nor  fear  ;  they  could  not  reflect 
then  from  his  face. 

"  Oh,  Geraldine!  that  Rodomant  has  gone 
—  has  been  gone  more  than  four  months." 

This  explains  in  a  word  what  would  be 
tedious  enough  in  detail.  Geraldi  in  per- 
suading —  we  should  say  attracting,  and  we 
might  say,  forcing,  Geraldine  to  fly  with  him 
from  Italy,  or  rather  from  her  grandmother's 
protection  —  for,  of  course,  that  was  the 
fact,  —  had  chosen  Belvidere  for  a  retreat, 
entirely  because  of  Rodomant's  residence 
there,  of  which  he  had  heard,  though  not  of 
his  departure.  Geraldi  felt  secure,  that  as 
Rodomant  had  prompted  him  to  be  an  actor, 
and  even  assisted  him  in  certain  preliminary 
steps,  he  should  be  certain  to  find  in  the 
musician,  now  crowned  with  power  as  well 
as  fame,  a  protector  and  a  patron,  at  least  a 
firm  adviser  ;  for  Rodomant's  poAver  and 
position,  as  Avell  as  his  resources,  had  been 
magnified  by  rumor  ;  his  fame  could  not  be 
flattered  nor  exaggerated  by  report.  It  Avas 
scarcely  strange,  therefore,  that  Geraldi 
Avaxed  Avroth  from  the  freshness  of  the  dis- 
appointment, to  find  himself  farther  from 
Rodomant  than  Avhen  in  Italy,  without  &n 
acquaintance  in  the  land  ;  for  his  actual 
means  were  scant  —  so  scant  he  could  clasp 
them  in  his  hand — a  handful  of  gold  coin, 
minished  by  need  of  the  journey  to  half  its 
value  of  the  day  before,  and  minishing  in 
prospect,  hour  by  hour,  to  poverty.  And 
Geraldine  had  brought  no  money  —  in  fact, 
he  Avould  not  have  allowed  her  to  ♦nke  any, 


m 


RUMOR. 


had  she  been  rich  at  her  own  commands, 
and  she  was  not  yet  of  age.  He  was  at 
least  generous  in  his  selfishness,  he  longed 
to  support  he'.,  and  woulO  have  laboi'ed 
steadfiistly  to  do  so. 

In  justice  to  Geraldine  also,  never  would 
his  persuasions  have  prevailed  —  never  had 
his  protestations  of  passion  tempted,  nor  his 
self-threatenings  daunted  her  ;  but  for  the 
fact,  which  he  made  the  most  of  in  repre- 
senting it  to  her,  that  he  had  been  traced  to 
iecret  meetings,  arrested  and  dismissed,  be- 
cause no  charge  could  be  fixed  upon  him  — 
more  than  once.  But  lately,  in  consequence 
of  increased  daring  on  the  part  of  his  col- 
leagues, which  implicated  him,  his  name  had 
been  published  —  placarded  ;  a  price  was 
even  set  on  him  among  a  dozen  others.  He 
had  represented  to  her,  and  perhaps  truly, 
that  he  was  lost  if  he  remained  in  Italy,  and 
she  believed  him,  though  she  urged  him  not 
to  fly  alone.  In  truth,  she  felt  as  though  in 
solitude  without  him  —  the  solitude  in  which, 
even  with  him,  she  sickened  —  she  should 
go  mad ;  nor  could  her  heart  endure  to 
separate  from  its  fond  companion  on  his 
own  account  —  he  was  certainly  poor  —  he 
might  be  ])laced  in  circumstances  of  danger. 
Still,  neither  of  these  motives,  though  they 
influenced,  would  have  led  her  astray  of 
themselves  —  he  chose  her  to  accompany 
him,  and  she  went.  Her  strength  greatly 
repaired,  though  not  restored  entirely,  and 
her  recovered  spirit  —  the  courage  of  the 
sanguine-delicate  —  made  such  a  flight  phys- 
ically possible,  and  he  had  arranged  it  the 
moment  her  health  permitted. 

Geraldi's  disappointment  merged  not  into 
despair  this  time  ;  his  hope  was  too  strong 
within  him  ;  his  lawless  soul  exulted  too 
wildly  in  the  present.  Yet,  to  Geraldine  he 
was  gentler  than  ever  —  he  knew  not  why, 
but  a  strange  ineff'ahle  pity  took  possession 
of  his  faculties,  and  his  vehemence  dissolved 
in  it.  A  pity  not  only  for  her,  but  also  him- 
self—  a  sensation  as  though  he  were  a  tliird 
person,  surveying  their  fates  from  the  future, 
when  they  should  be  past  —  a  feeling  more 
spiritual,  yet  more  strong  than  passion.  All 
angels  had  not  then  forsaken  him,  or  One 
above  the  angels.  For  that  gentleness,  that 
unwonted   and  inexplicable  pity,  saved  her 

—  delayed  until  too  late  for  Time,  her 
doom. 

He  took  her  into  the  hotel  —  made  her 
eat  and  rest ;  his  strange  subdued  manner 
affected  her  violently,  she  lost  all  her  self- 
possession,  and  wejit,  nor  could  he  comfort 
her.  This  change  in  her,  too  —  for  she  had 
acted  gayety  and  anticipation  as  much  as  he 

—  alarmed  him  for  her  health  ;  strong  emo- 
tion was  said  to  be  dangerous  for  her.  Ob- 
serving that  while  he  stood  in  the  window 
— naving  left  her  side  at  her  own  request  — 
she  checked  her  tears  ;  it  struck  him  that, 
in   order   to   pa«-s   tranquilly  the   next   few 


hours,  it  was  necessary  she  should  be  di- 
verted. He  recollected  the  festival  —  the 
interpreter  had  mentioned  it  to  him,  as  occu- 
pying the  whole  population.  The  mass  by 
this  time  was  over ;  he  had  heard  the  time  k 
was  to  begin,  but  he  knew  not  -what  diver- 
sions or  devices  might  be  arranged  to  follow, 
and  resolved  to  inquire.  He  left  the  room, 
looked  for  the  landlord  and  his  interpreter, 
who  were  lounging  both  at  their  own  front 
door,  and  retreated  with  them  to  a  corner 
inside  the  entrance  —  there  to  question  the 
one  through  the  other.  In  reply,  they  ad- 
vised him  strongly,  if  he  desired  to  partake 
in  any  sense  of  the  evening's  entertainment, 
to  mingle  with  the  masked  crowd  in  the 
streets,  as  the  prince  intended  to  pass 
through  the  entire  city  by  torchlight,  scat- 
tering from  his  own  hand  largess  in  the 
form  of  sweetmeats  touched  with  holy 
water,  on  his  way  to  a  ball  in  the  palace, 
also  in  masquerade  —  the  prince  unmasked 
in  both  instances.  As  the  special  favorites 
of  the  court  and  nobility  only  had  been  in 
vited  to  the  ball,  the  streets  would,  added 
they,  be  more  amusing  than  the  view  from 
any  single  window,  as  there  would  follow 
the  torchlight  a  universal  and  enforced 
illumination.  Geraldi  inquired  about  cos- 
tumes ;  safe  as  he  deemed  himself  in  his 
hold  on  Geraldine,  he  would  not  have 
risked  taking  her.  abroad,  or  going  himself, 
undisguised;  and  he  learned  speedily  that 
the  most  common,  and  therefore  little  dis- 
tinguishable, of  the  adopted  characters  were 
priests  and  monks  for  men  —  sisters  (sacred 
and  secular)  of  the  order  to  which  the  prin- 
cess belonged,  for  women.  Geraldi  de- 
spatched his  interpreter"  for  two  such  dresses, 
and  impatiently  awaited  his  return,  which 
was  extraordinarily  quick,  for  the  simple 
reason  that  the  dresses,  with  which  he  was 
laden,  were  the  very  last  to  be  procured  in 
the  city.  Geraldi  snatched  them  from  his 
arms,  and  flew  back  to  Geraldine.  Nothing 
more  opportune  could  have  been  suggested 
to  her  ;  she  felt,  and  had  felt  ever  since  she 
entered  a  room,  that  she  could  not  endure 
to  stay  indoors ;  she  longed  not  only  for  the 
fresh  air,  but  for  that  vague  yet  absolute 
sense  of  freedom  it  imparts,  and  its  influ- 
ence in  suspending  the  action  of  the  most 
excited  thoughts  for  those  who  are  pecul- 
iarly susceptible  of  it  —  as  she. 

The  equipment  took  but  few  moments, 
and  was  accomplished  merrily  —  whether 
the  merriment  was  masked  melancholy,  or 
not ;  but  it  was  certain  that  they  each  la- 
bored to  enjoy  the  hour,  with  that  ineff"able 
oppression  which  those  who  stifle  conscience, 
willingly  or  forcibly,  experience  in  its  stead. 

Geraldi's  costume  was  of  simple  serge, 
passing  well  for  heavy  silk  in  moon  and 
lamplight  —  with  the  legitimate  cord,  rosary 
with  crucifix,  and  tonsured  wig ;  Geraldine's 
the  same  material,  fashioned  like  the  even- 


RUMOR. 


191 


ing  Yohes  of  the  princess  herself,  the  differ- 
ence being  that  the  style  ecclesiastical  was 
merged  for  the  hour  in  a  carnivalesque 
fancy,  which  had  spangled  the  edges  and 
the  hem  with  tear-drops  in  blown-glass  — 
emulous  to  imitate  the  Virgin's  sorrow. 
Both  masks  were  black. 

They  descended  arm  in  arm,  or  rather 
Oeraldine  in  the  one  arm  of  Geraldi,  folded 
r.Huid  her  waist.  Leaving  the  precinct  of 
the  hotel,  which  was  brightly  lighted,  they 
soon  came  into  the  market  place,  and  there 
found  themselves  repeated,  as  it  were,  and 
.ost —  among  hundreds  of  dusky  forms  and 
masks,  amidst  what  seemed  a  meeting  of 
many  friends  in  groups,  and  a  buzz  in  an 
unknown  tongue.  Geraldine  could  not  walk 
fast,  and  in  walking  leisurely  she  M'earied 
soon ;  and  Geraldi,  having  ascertained  that 
the  procession  would  pass  round  the  cathe- 
dral, which  in  the  centre  of  the  town  was  not 
half  a  mile  from  the  chief  inn,  determined  to 
attain  it  as  a  point,  and  find  standing  place 
for  Geraldine  to  rest.  Easily  enough  they 
found  the  cathedral,  whose  marble  mass 
swelled  above  all  surrounding  buildings,  and 
having  threaded  one  of  the  numberless  small 
avenues  to  it,  thej-  came  upon  a  great  space 
round  it  comparatively  clear.  There  were 
multitudes  of  persons  waiting  here,  it  is 
true,  but  all  drawn  up  in  order,  in  close  deep 
crowded  lines,  leaving  broad  moonlit  paths 
between  each  row.  And  Geraldi  noticed 
that  this  even  crowd  was  denser  in  the  vivid 
moonlight,  and  thinner  where  the  shadow  of 
the  cathedral  cut  across  the  azure  blaze  upon 
the  pavement,  like  a  gulf  of  black  blue  dark- 
ness. He  chose  the  shadow  therefore  ;  there 
she  would  be  unmolested  by  the  pressure, 
and  in  the  shadow  they  stationed  them- 
selves, Geraldi  supporting  her  with  his  whole 
strength  still,  and  whispering  ineffable  sweet- 
nesses, all  the  darling  diminutives,  of  which 
his  language  has  a  treasury  inexhaustible  — 
fondness,  if  faulty,  at  least  faithful.  Geral- 
dine never  in  her  after-life  could  recall  those 
words,  nor  their  tone,  nor  even  their  mean- 
ing ;  nor  did  she  try  to  answer  them  at  the 
time  —  between  that  passing  hour,  which 
seemed  suspended,  and  the  future,  there  was 
a  deep  mystery,  an  abyss  of  inex])licable 
wonder,  she  cared  not  to  contemplate,  she 
could  not  fathom.  She  merely  existed  in  the 
hour,  was  gi'ateful  for  its  suspension  —  be- 
yond it  hoped,  expected,  foresaw  nothing. 

In  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour  a  distant 
murmur  took  the  silence,  a  distant  trumpet- 
tone  seemed,  on  shivering  the  air,  to  disturb 
the  moonshine  also  —  then  quiet  dissolved 
altogether  in  confusion,  nearer  shouting,  and 
the  first  far  glimmer  of  the  ruby  torch  points. 
Coming  nearer,  these  looked  like  lines  of 
burning  stars,  growing  larger  till  they  were 
larger  than  the  moon,  and  a  steam  of  fra- 
grance rolled  before  them  from  the  scented 
wood  from  which  the  brands  were  cleft. 
Geraldine  watched  the  ruddy  cressets  with  a 


wild  and  singular  fascination  —  she  fised  her 
eyes  on  them,  she  saw  nothing  else.  Sud- 
denly, and  while  they  yet  approached,  grew 
larger  ;  she  felt  herself  swung  upwards,  and 
in  another  instant  she  stood  within  the  shrine 
of  a  gray  and  glimmering  saint  in  stone  — • 
the  lowest  decoration  of  the  cathedral  wall, 
consisting  of  such  reiterated  shrines  or 
niches  entirely  round  it.  For  Geraldi  had 
perceived  that  the  proce?sion  would  pass 
close  beside  them,  and  fearing  she  should  be 
rudely  pushed,  or  even  sustain  the  touch  of 
any  other  hand  than  his  upon  her  raiment, 
had  placed  her  in  this  recess  which  he  had 
suddenly  discovered  so  near  them,  and  yet 
raised  above  the  ground.  "  Come  up  too," 
said  Geraldine,  the  first  words  she  had  ut- 
tered, but  he  shook  his  head ;  he  desired  not 
that  any  other  person  should  take  his  place 
beneath  her.  There  was  but  just  room  for 
her  to  place  her  feet  in  front  of  the  cold 
effigy,  and  he  bade  her  steady  herself  by  put- 
ting her  hand  on  his  head. 

The  flashing  din  drew  close  —  the  eight 
horses  walking,  or  rather  taking  long  and 
measured  leaps.  Before  them  broke  the 
guards  from  order,  and  made  their  steeds 
prance  right  and  left,  as  though  further  to 
widen  the  way.  They  trampled  on  the  edges 
of  the  shrinking  crowd,  and  pressed  them  ' 
into  closer  compass.  Geraldi,  next  the  wall, 
could  get  no  closer,  but  he  felt  niched  by 
those  about  him  in  his  few  feet  of  standing 
room,  as  effectually  as  Geraldine  in  her  shrine 
above  him.  Neither  could  have  stirred  now, 
had  they  wished.  There  was  no  room  for 
hei-  below — and  though  giddy  with  the  toss- 
ing torch  fire  and  the  wavering  multitude,  she 
felt  safe  —  still  his  arm  was  raised,  and  his 
hand  clasped  her  dress  inexorably. 

The  carriage  passed  them  slowly  —  it  was 
not  ten  feet  off.  In  the  glowing  flicker  could 
be  discerned  the  white  gleam  of  an  unmasked 
face,  and  the  whiter  flash  of  a  hand,  on  either 
side,  thrust  through  the  Avindows.  As  the 
sacred  comfits  fell,  the  crowd  on  both  hands 
stooped  to  gather  them  —  grappled  for  them 
—  had  they  been  grains  of  heaven-rained 
manna,  they  could  not  have  been  clutched 
so  eagerly.  Three  persons  only  bowed  not 
either  head  or  knee  —  Geraldine  on  her  ele- 
vation, Geraldi  underneath  her,  looking 
straight  up  in  her  face,  and  a  third  figure, 
taller  than  Geraldi  a  little,  but  dressed  and 
masked  like  him.  A  figure,  which  though 
none  around  him  had  known  or  noticed  the 
fact,  had  only  that  moment  mingled  with  the 
crowd. 

It  was  Rosuelo,  who  had  crept  in  the 
shadow  through  a  low  door,  looking  like  a 
block  of  stone  itself,  in  the  cathedral  wall. 

Exactly  as  the  carriage  passed  —  even  at 
the  instant  that  the  prince's  face  was  pre- 
sented'to  those  three,  who  had  not  stooped, 
in  passing  —  Geraldi  felt  the  elbow,  which 
was  farthest  from  Geraldine,  pressed  sud- 
denly against  his  side.     He  turned  his  head 


192 


RUMOIl. 


from  her,  and  looked  over  his  shoulder.  A 
man  standing  close  beside  him  was  in  the 
act  of  raising  his  arm,  and,  as  Geraldi  con- 
cluded, had  pressed  his  in  doing  so  —  he 
stood  so  near  him.  So  Geraldi  turned  his 
head  again,  and  looked  up  at  Geraldine  as 
before.  Next  moment  the)'  both  heard,  or 
rather  felt,  a  whizzing  shock  ;  it  did  not,  in 
me  confused  noise  of  the  crowd  and  trample 
of  the  horses,  sound  loud,  and  yet  it  momen- 
tarily stunned.  For  in  a  moment  it  was 
over.  Tliere  was  a  second  of  thrilling  and 
hideous  silence,  as  if  the  whole  multitude 
held  breath  at  once.  Then  a  wild  and  pier- 
cing, a  universal  yell.  A  confusion  indescrib- 
able, a  rush  ;  Geraldi  turned  completely,  still 
holding  Geraldine  by  his  hand  and  arm 
thrown  back.  The  mass  of  the  crowd  had 
swerved  from  each  line,  and  fallen  into  one  ; 
all  men  seemed  mixed  up  in  a  writhing  strug- 
gle, and  the  few  women  among  them  were 
lost  in  the  midst.  In  the  excitement  of  the 
moment,  ivhicli  touched  him  not,  he  was  too 
deeply  stirred  within  ;  Geraldi  distinctly  re- 
membered the  figure  of  the  man  which  had 
gloomed  beside  him  —  that  figure  was  no 
longer  there.  But  on  the  ground,  on  the 
spot  where  he  had  stood,  and  close  to  Geral- 
di's  feet,  he  saw  an  object  lying,  which  he 
could  not  define  in  the  shadow.  Mechani- 
cally he  stooped  a  moment,  and  picked  it  up. 
It  was,  an  instant's  glance  assured  him,  a 
minute  but  dangerous  firearm,  and  as  me- 
chanically as  he  had  handled  it  for  examina- 
tion he  drojiped  it  again  in  the  shade.  At 
that  instant,  he  actually  failed  to  associate  it 
>■  with  the  noise,  the  confusion,  the  sudden 
stoppage  in  the  procession,  for  the  carriage, 
a  few  feet  past  them,  had  ceased  to  move. 
He  even  thought  that  one  of  the  horses  had 
fallen,  and  Geraldine,  though  raised  above 
him,  could  see  no  more  distinctly. 

Suddenly,  and  soon,  the  collapse  of  the 
multitude  reacted  ;  it  divided  in  wide 
masses,  and  straggled  towards  the  cathe- 
dral, as  though  that  shadow,  or  the  wall  which 
cast  it,  were  a  shelter  from  suspicion.  Some 
persons  had  snatched  torches  from  their 
bearers,  and  were  flaming  ihem  in  every 
face,  dark  with  masks  that  hid  suspected 
features.  There  thundered  an  order  to  un- 
mask from  the  crowd  just  round  the  carriage. 
In  a  moment  there  glared  a  mass  of  white 
faces  and  terror-straining  eyes  on  the  moon- 
light, and  in  the  shadow.  Geraldi,  in  fear 
for  Geraldine's  fatigue,  though  he  anticipated 
nothing  worse  for  him  nor  her,  was  too  full 
of  it  to  heed  —  in  fact,  he  only  half-under- 
stood—  the  order  to  unmask.  And  he  un- 
masked not  —  his  and  hers  the  only  faces 
now  darkened  in  the  multitude.  The  un- 
masked soon  detected  this :  bred  in  terror 
and  superstition  from  the  cradle,  and^ tyrant 
ridden  into  petty  tyrants  all  —  soon  marked 
and  fastened  on  both  the  masked  faces,  the 
one  figure  close   against  the  wall,  the  other 


the  torch-carriers  —  some  waving  them 
above  their  heads ;  others  thrusting  them 
forwards  into  the  masked  faces  ;  one  or  two, 
more  cat-like  and  less  ardent,  held  the  flame 
steadily,  as  near  the  ground  as  possible. 
One  of  these  saw  the  pistol  lying  almost  at 
Geraldi's  feet. 

In  a  half-breath,  it  seemed  as  though  a 
hundred  hands  grasped  his  limbs  together  — • 
as  if  a  hundred  strangling  fingers  were  eager 
at  his  throat.  They  were  trying  to  unmask 
him,  and  the  many  failed.  He  was  obliijed 
to  remove  the  hand  which  held  on  Geraldine, 
or  he  must  have  choked.  He  tore  ofi"  his 
disguise  ;  and  Geraldine,  brave  as  all  women 
of  passion  in  emergency,  took  hers  off 
quietly,  and  leaping  from  her  elevation, 
flung  herself  to  him  ;  and  though  his  arms 
were  bound  already,  and  hers  seized  in- 
stantly, she  pressed  on  close  beside  him. 
But  her  beauty  sealed  her  innocence.  Un- 
happily, his  aspect  struck  conviction  to  the 
crowd,  as  well  as  to  the  officer  who  held  him, 
of  gt'.ilt.  For  Geraldi's  heart,  never  melted 
in  his  life,  this  hour,  this  moment,  broke  — 
his  pride  gave  way  beneath  it ;  and  the  agony 
that  could  not  wash  itself  away  in  that  agony 

—  that  storm  of  tears  —  the  agony  of  having 
brouglat  her  into  this  danger,  which  might 
destroy  her,  she  was  so  frail  —  passed  with 
the  cold,  mad  multitude  for  fear.  .  .  . 
Rosuelo,  intrepid  in  assurance,  lucid  in  in- 
toxication, with  all  his  wine-steeped  faculties 
met  in  vivid  focus ;  his  frame  wound  up  to  a 
pitch  higher  than  the  fever-crisis  in  its 
strength  ;  his  arm  steadied  by  a  brazen 
nerve,  directed  by  a  will  like  that  of  mad- 
ness, had  shot  the  prince  with  intention  pre- 
conceived—  with  motive  his  delirious  brain 
deemed  pure  ;  and,  like  such  fanatics  usually 

—  self-righteously  impelled  —  he  had  suc- 
ceeded. He  had  also  prearranged,  together 
with  the  crime,  his  own  detection  and  arrest. 
How  had  these  failed,  when  the  crime  suc- 
ceeded ?  By  force  of  nature,  the  nearest 
thing  to  God.  With  the  crime,  the  convic- 
tion of  it  naked  struck  home,  struck  thi'ough 
joints  and  marrow  to  conscience,  and  wounded 
it  to  death.  The  false  dress  —  the  sacred 
investiture  of  imagination  —  dropi^ed  from 
the  Fact  of  murder  —  not  as  regicide,  but 
blood,  for  which .  blood  must  flow.  m^A.  in 
an  instant,  like  Cain  from  the  face  of  God, 
Rosuelo  turned  and  hid  from  man.  In  the 
confusion  —  rolling  rather  towards  the  point 
of  murder  than  towards  the  agent  of  it — • 
and  helped  by  the  shadow  which  had  covered 
his  entrance,  he  escaped  under  cover  of  the 
same,  by  the  low  door  he  knew  so  well  — 
that  he  had  opened  so  often  after  his  minis- 
terings  to  those  in  extremity,  and  Avhom,  his 
OAvn  faith  wanting,  he  had  failed  to  help. 

But  Rosuelo  could  not  bear  the  noises 
brought  through  the  crevices  and  cracks  into 
the  great  empty  space,  and  wandering  there, 
like    bodiless   voices  of  sovds  without  rest, 


crouchmg  in   the    niche   above.     On    came  j  imprisoned.  Blood  for  blood!  they  shrieked 


RUMOR. 


193 


BO  -whispered  his  soul,  too.  He  must  be 
alone  to  listen  to  that  whisper.  He  knew 
every  secret  path,  above  and  under  ground, 
which  threaded  the  city ;  one  of  them  led 
direct  from  tlie  cathedral  to  the  royal  chapel, 
along  which,  on  superb  saints'  days,  the  im- 
mense cathedral  service  for  the  holiest  sacra- 
ment, was  carried  to  the  chajjel ;  fear  of  the 
plate  being  ravished  had  caused  the  prince 
CO  establish  this  secret  process  of  trans- 
mission. 

He  reached  the  chapel,  all  in  shadow  ex- 
i;cpt  M-here  one  broad  moon  ray  pierced  a  red 
gem  of  the  altar  window,  and  lay  on  the 
white  step  like  blood  just  spilled,  Rosuelo 
shuddered,  and  passed  it  hastily  with  closed 
eyes  —  groped  for  the  door  with  his  hands 

—  the  door  which  led  to  his  own  cell  in  the 
convent-sliadow,  and  went  out  cf  it  towards 
his  only  earthly  home. 

In  the  first  morning  gleam  he  sat  in  his 
stone  chamber  ;  the  morning  freshness  rolled 
the  fire-cloud  from  his  brain.  And  strangely 
enough,  instead  of  experiencing  the  remorse 
which  is  said  to  strike  naked  to  the  soul, 
especially  by  daylight  after  darkness :  the 
remorse  uhich,  in  the  night  had  possessed 
him  all  tlirough  the  self-righteous  assurance 
that  his  deed  was  just,  now  vanished  like  a 
spectre  —  took  wings  to  itself  like  a  day- 
scared  noisome  bird  of  night.  Instead,  a 
sense  of  triumph,  Avinged  with  white  glory 
like  an  angel,  seemed  to  hover  over  his 
aching  brain  —  the  brain  that  seemed  to 
ache  with  the  very  oppression  of  the  glory. 
One,  without  faith  in  what  all  his 
life  he  had  professed  to  believe,  might  well 
deceive  himself  in  his  life's  crowning  act. 
AVas  it  indeed  so  ?  .  .  The  moment  for 
which  he  had  only  lived,  which  alone  had 
kept  him  alive  for  years  —  the  second  of 
time  for  which  he  might  be  said  to  have 
labored,  so  long  had  been  the  travail  of  his 
thought,  with  the  design  he  had  accom- 
plished in  a  breath — this  was  done,  the 
breath  breathed,  the  soul  returned  by  man 
to  God,  unrecalled  by  him.  .  .  From  the 
time  Kosuelo  had  first  worshipped  a  woman 
in  the  place  of  her  Creator  —  not  with  that 
love  which  blends,  even  in  its  earthly  form, 
with  heavenly  love,  but  a  love  blind  to  God 
and  heaven  —  a  desire  made  sublime  by  pas- 
sion, but  not  instinct  with  any  soul ;  from 
that  hour  —  now  long  past,  yet  ever  present 
to  him  —  he  had  bent  his  whole  purpose, 
and  trained  his  reason  to  the  accomplish- 
ment of  a  deed  which  should  exalt  her  to 
the  character  he  knew  she  longed  for  most 

—  deliverer  of  her  degraded  race  from  the 
rule  which  crushed  it.  From  such  pure 
fruition,  should  not  crime  spring  pure?  Then 
why  all  those  long  months  —  after  long  years 
of  contemplation  —  did  he  find  it  needful  to 
mithridate  his  mind  through  the  only  avenue 
of  sense  he  left  open  to  himself — to  the  end 
that  crime's  poison  should,  when  at  last 
'asted,  taste  to  it  like  wholesome  food? 

25 


But  with  the  calm  white  day,  not  only  did 
triumph  spread  dazzling  wings  over  his  head, 
to  his  strained  and  morbidly  acute  percep- 
tion, but  a  dread  shook  the  triumphant 
ecstasy,  like  a  cold  wind  sweeping  under  the 
bright  morning-clouds  —  ofien  sweeping 
them  away.  This  was,  a  fear  lest  the  prince 
should  not  prove  actually  dead.  For  he  did 
not  know  this ;  he  had  not  staid  long 
enough  to  discover.  He  wondered,  in  the 
cold  mood  the  fear  had  brought  and  left, 
why  no  person  had  come  to  tell  him  ;  he 
had  officiated  from  time  to  time,  in  turn,  for 
the  prince's  private  services.  He  would  not 
have  wondered,  had  he  known  the  state  of 
the  city,  since  the  blow  was  struck;  .xw 
the  spasm  of  surprise  had  passed  into  a 
saturnalia  of  awful  joy,  how  the  weight  re- 
moved from  the  spirits  of  the  populace,  that 
for  years  had  chained  their  hearts,  had  given 
place  to  the  hideous  license  which  is  the 
reaction  of  too  long  a  check,  removed  from 
inferior  minds  in  the  mass,  without  culture 
and  without  hope. 

Noiselessly  as  though  he  feared  to  wake 
the  dead,  or  call  the  living,  Rosuelo  left  his 
cell.  Cautious  and  soundless  as  he  was,  he 
was  perfectly  assured,  not  paler  than  usual, 
nor  had  he  a  drier  tongue.  Dead  stillness, 
living  freshness,  every  where.  He  walked 
under  the  convent  wall,  slowly ;  even  with 
stately  step.  He  meant  thus  to  gain  the 
chapel  again,  then  to  be  found,  as  usual,  at 
matin-time,  and  then  to  question  what  per- 
son soever  he  might  first  meet.  Suspense 
was  saved  him,  so  far,  and  none  could  prize 
it  more  than  he  ;  even  at  that  calm  moment. 
Walking  calmly  along,  and  coming  in  due 
course  to  the  convent-gates,  he  saw  them 
open ;  open  to  the  convent  garden.  This 
was  unusual.  He  would  have  entered,  and 
gone  across  the  garden  to  the  inner  doors, 
but  found  it  needless  ;  he  could  inquire  at 
hand,  for  a  group  of  sisters  was  gathered 
just  inside  the  open  gate.  He  was  afraid  to 
question  directh-  about  the  prince,  so  merely 
asked,  M'hy  they  all  waited  there  so  early^ 
and  what  event  they  were  expecting  ? 

"  It  is  the  poor  woman,  my  father,"  said 
the  eldest  of  the  sisters,  without  looking  in 
his  face ;  indeed,  they  were  none  of  them 
surprised  to  meet  him,  his  apparition  ever 
haunted  their  experience.  *'  The  ])rincess 
sent  word  she  was  to  be  brnus;ht  here, 
directly  she  heard  she  was  so  ill.  She  will 
come  to  see  her,  herself,  before  any  one  is 
abroad,"  added  the  same  sister,  peering 
anxiously  through  the  open  gateway. 

"  I  did  not  know  there  was  a  woman  con- 
cerned," returned  Rosuelo  ;  not  caring  to 
assume  ignorance,  as  he  might  be  well  sup- 
posed to  have  received  intelligence  of  the 
night's  event,  if  the  nuns  in  their  seclusion 
had  heard  of  it. 

"  The  wife,  or  sister,  none  knows  which, 
of  the  assassin.  There  was  believed  to  have 
been  a  conspu-acy,  at  first,  from  her  being  se 


194 


RUMOR. 


close  to  him,  but  to  him  only  could  the  blow 
be  traced  ;  and  she  was  so  young,  and  looked 
so  innocent." 

*'  Besides,  she  fell  down  in  a  fit  in  the 
guard-room,"  broke  in  another. 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Rosuelo  ;  "  and  he  —  he  has 
not  escaped,  of  course  ?  " 

•'  He  was  beheaded  at  two  o'clock ;  the 
prince  ordered  it,  instantly,  without  form. 
He  spoke  so  loud,"  said  the  sister,  sinking 
ter  voice,  "  that  every  one  about  him  thought 
he  would  revive.  They  were  his  last  words ; 
the  command  was  distinct,  and  no  one  dared 
to  plead,  because  all  thought  he  might  re- 
cover." 

"  If  the  princess  had  only  been  in  time  ! " 
exc!!aimed  a  third  ;  '•  but  she  did  not  arrive 
till  he  was  speechless.  She  sent  word  on 
her  own  responsibility  for  the  execution  to  be 
delayed.  It  was  too  late.  They  say  the 
princess  fainted ;  I  don't  believe  that,  she 
never  faints." 

"  Where  was  the  princess  last  night, 
then  ? "  inquired  Rosuelo,  with  choking 
calmness  ;  it  was  well  for  him  that  the  awful 
fact  bred  awe,  if  loyal  sorrow  were  impos- 
sible. 

"  That  was  the  worst  —  yet  it  might  have 
been  as  bad,  had  she  been  at  the  palace. 
She  was  in  bed  —  here  ;  she  did  not  go  out 
last  night  —  some  say  she  was  not  well.  / 
think  she  had  one  of  her  dreams  the  night 
before." 

As  a  child,  the  princess  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  relate  her  dreams  to  the  sisters  in 
the  convent,  who  were  her  favorite  friends. 
Even  in  infoncy,  those  winged  ideas  had 
ever  a  celestial  direction,  and  a  lucid  distinct- 
ness that  resembled  forecast ;  as  she  grew 
older,  she  retained  the  faculty  (rather  spirit- 
ual than  intellectual)  of  dreaming  at  her  own 
will.  But  she  never,  after  she  attained  full 
youthhood,  confessed  her  dreams.  In  this 
instance,  that  previous  night,  she  had  not 
dreamed  at  all  in  the  usual  sense,  for  she  had 
not  slept.  Nor  had  she,  in  the  common 
meaning,  praj-ed.  But  she  had  passed  the 
long  hours  in  wrestling  with  the  unseen  —  in 
mastering  the  mystery  of  the  unknown  ;  all 
humanity  seemed  borne  upon  her  bosom,  in 
her  heart's  deep  bitterness  ;  all  hope  for  the 
world  seemed  to  consist  in  the  great  love  her 
own  heart  felt,  the  shadow  and  evidence  of 
the  Divine. 

However,  Rosuelo  knew  nothing  of  such 
dreams  as  hers,  and,  when  he  dreamed,  it 
was  of  her,  not  of  her  spirit.  He  thought 
not  at  this  instant  of  her  at  all,  he  was  bit- 
ten by  a  rabid  curiosity.  "  And  who,"  asked 
he,  "does  the  wretch  appear  to  be?  —  has 
his  name  been  mentioned  ?  " 

"  No  one  knows  his  name  —  he  would  not 
give  it.  He  was  an  Italian,  however  —  one 
of  the  new  insurrectionists,  they  say.  There 
were  papers  found  on  him,  when  he  was 
searched,  —  in  cipher,  and  the  oihcer  who 
translated  certainly  found   some   words   he  | 


could  decipher,  and  they  were  about  a  plot. 
That  was  good  to  happen,  for  it  proves  that, 
even  if  his  punishment  was  premature,  it 
was  just." 

It  was  a  fact  that  Geraldi,  in  his  last  par- 
oxysm of  audacity  to  force  Geraldine  from 
her  safety,  had  retained  about  his  person 
some  letters  ewid  minutes,  both  relating  to  a 
design  on  the  government  of  his  own  lawful 
sovereign,  whose  name  was  not  mentioned  in 
either.  Thus  the  snare  had  entangled  his 
o%vn  feet.  But,  neither  assassination,  nor 
personal  injury,  was  intended  in  the  first  in- 
stance. 

Rosuelo,  still  burning  with  the  desire  for 
knowledge,  which  he  knew  not  in  what  terms 
to  confess,  nor  how  to  gratify  further  at  that 
moment,  stood  among  the  women,  as  if  pre- 
paring with  them  to  assist  their  sacred  charge. 
The  women  whispered  together  —  not  about 
him,  though.  Soon  a  carriage  was  seen  in 
the  distance ;  it  passed  in  and  out  of  the  tree- 
shadows  slowly,  but  when  it  came  near 
enough  for  the  sun  to  reveal  its  panels,  it 
was  discovered  to  be  the  princess's  own. 
Rosuelo  was  obliged  now  to  await  its  en- 
trance, for  his  departure  would  have  been 
too  remarkable  to  attempt.  The  wheels 
rolled  through  the  gateway,  the  princess  was 
in  the  carriage  —  Rosuelo  saw  no  other 
occupant  as  yet.  He  felt  that  her  eyes  fell 
upon  him,  and  yet  more  self-consciouslyye?<, 
rather  than  saw,  that  she  alighted  then  and 
there.  Her  glance  quitted  him  an  instant, 
during  which  Geraldine  was  lifted  from  the 
front  seat  tenderly,  the  princess  assisting ; 
next  moment  she  looked  at  him  again,  and 
turned  her  eyes  from  him,  slowly,  gradually 
doM-nward,  till  they  rested  painfully  —  it 
seemed  reproachfully  —  on  Geraldine's  fiice. 
"Whom  reproached  she  ?  —  not  strange  that 
she  felt  pain,  and  showed  it ;  but  why  re- 
proach ? 

"  She  is  dead,"  said  one  sister  solemnly. 
'•  Close  her  eyes,"  exclaimed  another,  and 
trembling,  put  out  a  gentle  hand  to  touch 
the  lids  of  the  blue  eyes,  glazed  upwards, 
unshrinking  from  the  sun  that  poured  upon 
them.  Rosuelo  turned  sick,  and  felt  as 
though  he  turned  pale  from  head  to  foot, 
faint  anguish  thrilled  in  every  vein.  Had  he 
remained  an  instant,  he  must  have  fallen, 
and  he  knew  this.  In  the  black  mist  that 
swept  before  his  eyes  he  saw  nothing,  even 
lost  sight  of  her  he  loved,  and  that  dead  face 
he  feared.  He  groped  for  the  cold  stones 
of  the  piled  up  gateAvay,  passed  out,  and 
crept  along  by  fingering  the  cold  stones  of 
the  wall. 

By  the  time  he  reached  his  cell,  he  again 
saw  "distinctly  —  realized  with  vivid  sense  be- 
yond distinctness.  He  had  once  entertained 
a  design  for  poisoning  the  prince,  when 
called  to  exhibit  the  host  in  his  presence,  on 
one  of  the  rare  occasions  which  happened 
about  a  year  apart  from  each  other.  But, 
infidel  as  he  was,  he  had  always  trembled  to 


EUMOR. 


195 


pollute  the  wafer,  because  the  priace  believed 
m  its  efficacy.  It  was  easy  to  him  to  poison 
either  element  on  his  own  behalf,  for  he  be- 
lieved in  neither. 

He  took  a  little  phial  from  a  recess,  and 
went  out  quietly,  locked  his  cell,  and  entered 
the  chapel,  or  rather  first  the  sacristy.  Re- 
issuing from  this  sacred  and  secret  chamber 
—  o])en  to  men  of  his  profession,  he  stood 
at  the  altar  foot  with  something  in  his  hand. 
A  golden  vase,  deep-crusted  and  edged  with 
gems,  that  flashed  like  rainbow  lightnings  in 
the  sunshine,  poured  insufferably,  blindingly 
glorious,  through  the  altar  window,  unrup- 
tured by  the  shock  of  music,  which  the 
echoes  had  long  since  forgotten. 

Never  could  Rosuelo  explain  to  his  dying 
hour,  long  delayed,  why  he  did  not  drain  the 
goblet  in  the  secret  chamber  of  the  sacristy. 
Probably  it  was  a  simple  reason  —  nature's 
daily,  hourly  miracles  are  ever  simple  —  the 
instinct  of  self-preservation  roused  by  immi- 
nent, though  self-presented,  danger.  A 
natural  instinct  —  whereas  that  of  self-de- 
struction is  an  unnatural  one,  requiring 
stimulants  or  stultifying  opiates,  in  order  to 
consummate  its  cravings.  j 

As  Rosuelo  stood  on  the  altar  base,  still 
dallying  with  the  death  he  had  invoked,  an 
ineflable  sense  of  worship  of  the  adorable,  if 
nameless  —  struck  him.  It  was  a  new  sense, 
belonging  not  to  the"  order  of  senses,  and 
lied  him  with  delicious  fear.  It  could  not 
De  the  contemplation  of  those  heaped  trea- 
sures of  the  world,  cast  recklessly  on  the 
shrine  of  that  unknown  God,  the  church. 
He  had  seen  them  a  thousand  times,  and 
long  since  wearied  of  the  spectacle.  But  as 
though,  through  the  myriad  jewel-blaze,  he 
detected  the  source  of  light,  he  leaned  to- 
.  wards  it,  strained  his  eyes  towards  it,  but  did 
not  kneel.  He  aspired  too  yearningly  to 
abase  his  body.  His  brain  quivered  with  a 
pulsation  that  resembled  the  throbbing  of 
white  flame  in  fire,  nearest  the  cent]-al  heat. 

As  so  he  stood,  all  eye;  a  voice  clove  the 
dazzling  calm.  The  forgotten  senses  leaped 
to  order  in  response  ;  the  hand,  holding  the 
fiacred  vase,  filled  from  flagon  by  the  church 
held  sacred,  shook,  but  still  grasped  it.  When 
ghouk'  it  be  emptied — if  not  now  P 

Cui'  ous  were  Adelaida's  first  words,  curi- 
ously at  variance,  too,  M'ithlier  white  cheeks, 
swollen  eyes,  and  womanhood  trembling  in 
each  fibre.  "  Give  me  that  wine  to  taste." 
No  longer  "  father,"  he  noticed  that,  even  in 
his  extremity.  No  longer  "  my  daughter," 
then. 

"  It  is  not  for  such  as  thou,"  he  said. 
But  Ids  voice  was  steady,  the  question  on 
her  part  had  steadied  him. 

"  Give  it  me,  this  moment,"  she  repeated. 

"  The  sacred  vessel !  "  he  exclaimed. 

"  Was  it  ever  sacred  to  you  ?  " 

She  stretched  her  hand  towards  it  — 
already  she  touched  the  stem.  With  an  iron 
force   and  a  gesture   that   contradic**'d   his 


calm  tone,  he  tore  it  from  her  touch  —  up- 
turned it.  In  a  moment,  the  wine  lay  likf 
dashed  rubies  on  the  marble  step.  Then  for 
once  he  flung  himself  on  his  knees  —  not 
before  God,  but  her. 

"  I  thought  you  would  not  let  me  taste  it," 
she  said.  "  You  do  not  wish  to  kill  me. 
Now  rise,  there  is  my  hand."  Very  sternly 
the  last  few  words  were  uttered.  But  he 
would  not  touch  it,  he  staggered  to  his  feet, 
and  leaned  with  his  whole  weight  of  weak- 
ness now  on  the  railing  of  the  altar.  She 
looked  clear  at  him,  Jier  pale  face  darkt  neiJ 
M-ith  shame,  with  sorrow,  with  passioi.tsa 
regret. 

"  I  saw  your  face,  when  I  was  in  the  :ar- 
riage.  That  told  me.  I  followed  you. 
Understand  —  you  told  me  yourself —  I 
should  never  have  dreamed,  nor  guessed  it 
.  .  .  So  you  Mould  have  died,  and  allowed 
them  to  write  murder  on  a  stainless  grave  !  " 

His  chest  heaved  with  the  great  pulse  of 
his  heart  —  swollen  as  though  all  his  li^  had 
rushed  into  it  —  between  its  beatings  he 
could  only  mutter,  "  Blood  for  blood,  the 
old  law  —  nature's;  men  demand  it  too." 

"There  has  been  blood  for  blood,"  she 
answered,  awfully,  "  and  better  blood  than 
yours ;  it  was  innocent,  and  for  a  sacrifice  to 
the  guilty  shall  suffice.  You  forget,  that  it  is 
/  now  only,  who  have  the  right  to  let  you 
die  —  or  to  command  you  to  live." 

This  was  true  —  he  knew  it.  Oh  !  that  she 
would  "  let  him  die." 

"You  cannot  —  you  ought  not — to  for- 
give," he  groaned,  falling  on  his  knees  again. 
"  Oh,  give  me  death  !  " 

"  I  bid  you  live,  because  you  wish  to  die. 
I  charge  you,  before  God,  to  Kve.  I  com- 
mand you,  unless  you  would  destroy  me ;  I 
can  bear  no  more  of  death." 

She  wept  an  instant.  Her  sorrow  tri- 
umphed ;  his  manhood  melted  into  pity  at 
her  tears,  and  in  her  weakness  his  strength 
dissolved.  Her  presence  was  no  longer  temp- 
tation, either  to  passion  or  to  death. 

"  Swear  to  me,"  she  faltered,  "  swear  that 
you  will  depart  and  live.  Make  not  my 
burden  .heavier.  I  have  already,  much  to 
bear." 

"  No  oath,"  he  said,  "  for  I  cannot  take  it, 
nor  you  accept  it  from  me." 

"  Your  promise." 

"  I  will  not  promise.  But  I  go.  And  be- 
cause you  command  it,  I  will  try  to  live,  I 
will  try  not  to  long  for  death." 

"  I  believe  you  —  you  will  not  disappoint 
me.  For  you  dare  not  die  ;  you  have  hated 
too  strongly :  you  must  learn  to  love.  To 
live  for  others  —  you  have  hijured  many. 
Give  yourself,  instead  of  substance.  Live 
that,  after  death,  in  its  own  time,  we  may 
meet  as  friends  forever." 

She  moved  slowly  towards  the  door — she 
had  done  her  utmost;  her  entire  strength 
was  spent.  She  feared  —  more  than  she 
hoped ;  she  had  little  faith  in  the  efficacy  of 


196 


EUMOE. 


her  endeavor.  Yet  it  was  successful.  Shun- 
ning the  death  he  yearned  for,  as  he  had  been 
taught  by  murder  lo  shun  her  love  ;  he  went 
forth,  and  lived.  His  life  was  "  the  body  of 
death  "  —  one  long  exhaustion  of  the  founts 
of  loveless  charity,  drained  ever,  never  empty. 
He  fjund  no  comfort  —  no  peace — no  self- 
approval.  In  thick  dangers  that  were  death 
t;i  thousands,  he  stood  safe,  and  lived ;  dis- 
e  ses  in  passing  mocked  his  health,  that, 
unfed  by  care  or  wholesome  influences,  never 
failed  him.  Ingratitude  met  him  for  devo- 
tion, crime-laden  conscience  delivered  over 
t!j  him  its  burden,  the  cup  of  cold  water  he 
gave  was  dashed  in  his  face,  his  sympathy 
repudiated  with  contempt.  In  lowly  paths, 
by  ways  none  traced,  he  learned  histories 
unwritten,  he  taught  lessons  that  were  never 
learned.  And  last  of  all,  without  reward, 
without  hope  —  having  forgotten  love  in  lov- 
ing others  —  he  died,  expecting  rest,  only 
rest,  and  only  desiring  rest.  And  woke  up 
to  receive  —  a  martyr's  crown ;  a  fame  celes- 
tial that  rung  through  Heaven.  She  had  left 
him  to  the  judgment  of  God 

Adelaida  returned  to  Geraldine,  still  lying, 
.  where  she  had  first  been  placed  —  in  the 
princess's  own  bed.  Doctors,  called  in,  had 
quarrelled  over  the  name  of  the  attack,  and 
all  but  fought  over  the  proper  remedies. 
Trance,  catalepsy,  hj^steria,  idiocy  from 
fright,  incipient  insanity,  jangled  in  the  cat- 
alogue ;  cordials,  cardiacs,  stimulants,  opi- 
ates, were  exhausted  in  their  appellatives 
professional.  One  or  two  were  tried,  suc- 
cessively ;  but  Adelaida  would  permit  no 
more  to  be  administered ;  she  perceived  a 
vague  distress  creep  over  the  death-calm 
face,  an  expression  which  only  one  woman 
could  interpret  in  another,  when  speechless. 
It  betrayed  that  power  to  suffer  lasted  — 
therefore,  there  was  life  :  also  power  to  dis- 
criminate—  therefore  reason.  So  she  sent 
all  the  doctors  away,  nor  would  allow  another 
nurse  to  enter  —  fearful  to  thwart  or  trouble 
the  magnetic  current  which  encompasses  vi- 
tality. 

Not  a  moment's  sleep  did  she  suffer  her- 
self to  take,  lest  her  patient  should,  suddenly 
restored,  require  nutriment,  and  actually  sink 
for  want  of  it  instantly  conveyed.  She  yet 
found  means  to  su])erintei"id  every  necessary 
duty,  by  communicating  with  messengers  at 
the  door.  She  would  permit  no  person  but 
herself  to  be  a])plied  to  for  public  necessities, 
nor  special  exigencies  of  Death's  occasion. 
Her  fi'ther  lay  in  state;  all  prisoners  were 
released  {for  the  moment  her  own  pension- 
ers] ;  and  the  sick  carried  to  hospitals  for 
rhe  time  appointed,  tended  by  her  own  sister- 
hood, while  she  was  tending  Geraldine. 

The  assertion  has  been  ventured,  that  hap- 
piness will  restore  the  dying.  If  love  makes 
happiness,  Adelaida  might  have  raised  the 
iead,  so  loving  was  she.  It  is  possible  that 
me  e  care  and  pity  would  not  have  brought 
bacij  Geraldine  from  the  etlge  of  the  grave 


she  was  so  near ;  but  as  her  nurse  watched 
her,  she  loved  her,  and  willed  hei  restora- 
tion, with  the  single  heart  of  love.  Deeply 
as  a  woman  Svi  pure  and  passionate  could, 
she  felt  for  the  helpless  creature  lying  in  her 
own  bed.  She  had  taken  pains  to  ascertain, 
that  all  through  the  reclcless  injustice  of  a 
secret  tribunal,  an.  the  barbaric  cruelty  of  a 
secret  execution,  the  very  soldiers  who  took 
part  in  the  latter,  assisted'  by  the  guards  con- 
cerned in  the  first,  had  combined,  without 
orders,  to  tear  Geraldine  from  the  scene,  long 
before  its  completion.  Therefore,  knowing 
that  she  was  actually  unaware  of  the  end, 
Adelaida  conceived  it  could  only  have  been 
wedded-love,  or  promised  wife-hood  that  had 
caused  in  its  agony  of  parting  a  lapse  of  con- 
sciousness —  a  pause  in  being,  that  resembled 
an  enchanted  death. 

It  was  a  hard  task  for  a  woman  like  Ade- 
laida to  sit  by  her,  and  await  her  re-living 
response  ;  the  awakening  of  reason  which 
would  be  the  signal  for  the  real  death  of  be- 
reavement to  enter  the  soul.  Not  only  to 
have  to  witness  the  unavailing  sorrow,  but 
to  break  up  its  fountains  by  the  shock  of  rev- 
elation—  which  it  was  hers  alone  to  make. 
She  had  been  sorely  nerve-shaken  herself, 
and  heart- wrung  by  pride  —  by  neglect.  For 
Porphyro,  actually  busy  as  she  had  never 
beheld,  and  could  not  fancy  him  —  Porphyro. 
whose  M'hole  intelligence  was  bent  on  grasp- 
ing his  own  sanity  tight  in  the  crisis  of  suc- 
cess, such  as  never  dizzied  man  before — • 
had  only  sent  an  official  message  of  politic 
sympathy  with  the  new  regnant  and  the 
kingdom  in  one.  Not  a  word  to  her  —  for 
her  alone !  And  to  recall  her  loss  to  her, 
was  to  mock  her  with  an  orphanage  that  had 
lasted  from  her  birth  —  no  new  loneliness, 
except  what  he  had  himself  created  for  her. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  of  the  fifth  day  of 
her  unconsciousness,  Geraldine  suddenly  and 
softly  woke  —  like  an  infant,  to  whom  the 
shock  of  waking  is  so  gentle,  while  to  the 
adult  it  always  seems  a  violent  recall.  Ade- 
laida was  sitting  at  the  window  —  that  win- 
dow always  open,  though  now  a  screen  was 
drawn  from  the  ceiling  to  the  floor,  between 
it  and  the  bed.  Geraldine,  turning  her  head 
on  her  pillow,  saw,  as  she  supposed,  a  char- 
itable nurse.  "  How  long  have  I  been 
asleep  ?  "  she  asked.  Adelulda's  heart  an- 
swered long  before  her  lips  ;  she  forgot  all 
her  own  sorrow  in  the  joy  of  that  awakening, 
which  she  had  watched  for  with  the  tender- 
ness which  so  tenderly  endears  its  object. 

"  Many  hours,"  she  answered,  going 
quietly  to  the  bedside.  Adelaida  spoke  in 
Italian  —  all  accomplishments  were  hers. 
Geraldine  for  an  instant  fancied  herself  back 
in  Italy,  and  forgot  (she  had  remembered  in 
her  trance)  for  a  moment  what  had  hap- 
pened. She  gazed  in  the  sweet  face  bending 
over  her,  as  though  to  recall  it  as  belonging 
to  one  of  her  ancient  friends ;  but  her  eyea 
wavered  in  their  weakness,  and  closing  them, 


RUMOR. 


197 


she  remembered  all  —  on  the  darkness  of 
her  brain,  the  picture  of  the  late  past  seemed 
drawn  distinctly,  only  far  less  vividly  than 
when  she  slept. 

"  Is  he  buried  ? "  were  her  first  words. 
And  natural  as  they  were  to  herself,  knowing 
what  she  knew,  they  made  her  companion 
shiver.  She  had  not  shared,  and  could  not 
sympathize  with,  the  terrors  of  that  trance. 
She  could  not  even  guess  them.  Amaze- 
ment checked  and  dried  the  springing  tears. 
How !  could  the  sleeper  have  dwelt  with  the 
unseen  ?  —  whither  had  gone  forth  her  soul, 
and  how  had  it  stealthily  returned  ? 

But  Adelalda  knew  too  much  about  illness 
to  express  surprise.  "  He  is  not  buried," 
she  answered  steadily  and  softly.  "  I  thought 
you  would  like  to  see  him,  and  I  had  him 
embalmed." 

"  I  thank  you,"  said  Geraldine  as  quietly. 
Something  of  the  somnambulistic  suspension 
clung  to  her  senses  still,  though  her  soul  had 
released  her  frame  —  the  cold  and  passion- 
less serenity,  in  which  all  impressions,  great 
and  small,  sink  lightly,  Uke  bodies  in  a 
vacuum. 

"  There  is  a  comfort,"  she  continued,  look- 
ing out  now  as  into  space,  with  a  vague,  yet 
solemn,  vision.  "  He  did  not  sutler  ;  I  who 
saw  it  suffered.  Sensation  ceases  before  life. 
The  sword  was  sharp,  too ;  the  man  sharp- 
ened it  on  purpose.  His  back  was  turned  to 
Geraldi ;  but  I  saw  a  tear  drop  on  the  steel, 
and  dull  it.  He  knew  Geraldi  was  innocent, 
I  saw  his  thoughts,  and  I  wondered  that  he 
struck ;  but,  though  I  was  there,  I  could  not 
speak." 

Adelaida  again  shuddered.  Whence  came 
this  awful  familiarity  with  what  ilesh  had  not 
experienced  —  which  eye  had  not  seen,  nor 
ear  heard  ?  For  it  was  impossible  Geraldine 
could  have  been  sensibly  conscious.  She 
had  been  wrenched  from  him,  before  the 
sentence  was  pronounced;  had  fidlen  straight- 
way into  that  state  which  had  suspended,  at 
least  obviously,  her  volition. 

Still  more  fixed  became  her  gaze  —  not 
dreamy,  but  as  if  searching  the  light  for 
some  mystery  it  enfolded,  as  unseen  as  in 
the  darkness. 

"  He  is  now  at  rest,  and  some  time  soon, 
he  will  be  happy.  I  wish  I  could  noio  see 
his  thoughts,  as  1  AiA  then  !  But  he  —  will 
—  be  —  happy  — when  —  I  —  am  —  back  — 
again  —  with  "  —  Here  her  voice  dropped  a 
name  in  silence  ;  the  princess's  eager  ear  lost 
the  sound,  though  her  eye  saw  the  motion  of 
the  lips.  Strange  phenomenon  !  Geraldine 
felt,  even  in  that  awakened  sense,  that  she 
had  no  right  to  reveal  Geraldi's  secret,  shel- 
tered by  the  grave. 

"  How  gently  he  went !  How  glorious  he 
looked !     I  saw  in  his  soul  that  he  was  glad 

to  die He  wanted  to  write  word 

to  Diamid  —  "  Again  she  paused.  "They 
would  not  give  him  pen  and  ink.  I  think 
they  thought  he  wanted  to  defend  himself, 


and  they  knew  it  was  of  no  use.     .  .     . 

He  scratched  his  wrist,  and  showed  it  them 

—  made  signs  he  only  wanted  a  pen,  by 
writing  on  the  air." 

It  was  all  true.  And  truly  had  she  read 
his  thoughts,  —  his  soul.  He  had  longed  to 
write  to  Albany  an  assurance,  signed  by  a 
hand  with  its  latest  motion,  of  Geraldine's 
perfect  innocence  —  his  own  intended  guilt, 
from  which,  let  it  be  in  justice  to  him  said, 
he  had  actually  quailed,  when  it  became  pos- 
sible of  accomplishment.  His  agony  had. 
not  been  the  fear  of  dying,  for  every  drop 
of  blood  in  his  veins  was  vahant ;  but  that 
he  had  not  been  able  to  write  such  an  assur- 
ance ;  he  feared,  no  man  would  believe  a 
woman's  simple  word  —  he  knew  not  th* 
husband  from  whom  he  had  separated  Geral- 
dine, yet  to  whom,  in  his  last  hour,  he 
yearned  but  to  restore  her,  pure. 

Adelalda,  who  had  intended  to  make  Ger- 
aldine take  some  nourishment  the  moment 
she  showed  consciousness,  had  literally  been 
spelled  from  her  duty  ;  she  could  but  stand 
there,  and  hear  to  the  end,  the  mysterious 
story.  It  was  over — all  told,  and,  with  the 
will  for  action,  the  power  ceased.  Now  Ger- 
aldine really  fainted  from  want  of  food  —  the 
strange  hunger  without  appetite,  which  all 
who  have  passed  through  great  sorrows  — 
which  are  also  great  terrors  —  know  so  well. 
From  this,  it  was  easy  to  arouse  her  —  it 
was  merely  a  physical  symptom,  and  restora- 
tives, which  had  failed  utterly  in  the  first 
instance,  availed  directly  now.  And  when 
restored,  the  nurse's  chief  care  was  to  pre- 
vent the  patient  from  eating  too  fast  and  ea- 
gerly. "  Make  me  strong,  oh,  let  me  be  — 
strong  !  "  was  now  her  only  cry.  And  though 
farthest  from  strong,  yet  after  an  hour's  nat- 
ural sleep,  she  woke,  and  demanded  mate- 
rials for  writing.  The  princess,  still  sitting 
in  the  window,  wondered  who  upon  earth 
she  could  have  to  write  to  —  she  wrote  so 
much.  The  sheets  covered  the  bed  all  round 
her ;  hours  afterwards,  she  wrote  still,  and 
there  were  sheets  on  the  floor;  hours  after- 
wards, she  wanted  more  paper,  she  had  filled 
a  quire.     This,  Geraldine's  last  compositicm 

—  for  she  never  again  had  desire  to  write, 
nor  need  to  write  to  him  —  was  a  letter  to 
her  husband. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

Singularly  as  the  princess's  reign  began, 
it  would  have  excited  more  general  astonish- , 
ment  if  it  had  not  been  over  a  kingdom  so 
limited  in  tract  and  a  people  so  inert,  she 
was  suddenly  called  to  rule.  As  it  had  been 
ushered  in  with  no  more  state  than  that — • 
always  solemn,  in  this,  case  awful — the  right 
of  royal  sepulture  demanded,  so  no  universal 
acclaim,  no  addresses  of  adulation,  nor  waste 


198 


RUMOR. 


of  finances,  M'ere  permitted  by  her  to  succeed 
it.  For  the  present,  as  at  first,  she  wore  her 
wonted  robes  of  sorrow,  which  required  no 
weed  additional  to  make  them  mourning ; 
and  remained  in  strict  retirement.  Except 
for  the  orders  which  none  could  countermand, 
nor,  so  early  in  a  reign,  the  most  disaffected 
dishonor  —  the  orders  for  the  personal  free- 
dom and  temporary  amelioration  of  the  most 
suffering  and  degraded  of  her  subjects,  —  she 
contradicted  the  precedent,  and  altered  not  a 
phase  of  government  as  yet.  As  for  the 
antique  charmed  circle  of  ministers  and  cour- 
tiers, they  marvelled  at  this  license  of  repose 
even  more  than  did  the  people.  And  the 
latter,  morally  unprepared  for  the  change 
wrought  for  them  by  feminine  benevolence, 
received  it  rather  as  a  shock,  than  accepted 
it  as  a  boon.  Then,  there  was  nothing  to 
feed  wonder  for  the  wealthy  and  ambitious, 
nor  curiosity  for  the  needy  and  ignorant ; 
the  surface  of  events  lay  calm  without  a  tide 
—  a  calm  which,  if  it  were  suffered  to  re- 
main unstirred,  unbroken,  for  very  long, 
might  reasonably  be  anticipated  to  quicken 
into  those  forms  of  monstrous  evil,  inevitably 
bred  by  idleness  —  whether  among  courtiers, 
or  amidst  criminals. 

Adelaida  knew  this  well ;  she  had  reasons 
great  and  deep,  and  as  philosophical  as  ever 
swayed  a  woman,  for  permitting  such  a  state 
of  things  to  last  awhile.  She  desired  her 
subjects  to  experience  the  need  of  gover- 
nance, to  ascertain  their  absolute  inaptness  to 
rule  themselves  ;  she  willed  to  excite  in  them 
a  universal  yeai-ning  for  a  safe,  strong  guid- 
ance to  a  place  among  nations,  higher  than 
their  country  had  held  before.  Exhausted 
by  tyranny,  she  would  have  them  rest  with- 
out action,  and  without  hope  or  fear,  in  order 
that  they  might  recover  some  portion  of  that 
mettle,  which  is,  to  a  multitude,  what  the 
«'  tone "  of  the  physician  is  to  the  human 
institution.  Had  she  chosen,  she  could 
easily  have  won  for  herself  a  fictitious  loy- 
ilty,  a  passion  for  homage,  such  as  one  so 
fail-  may  ever  expect  from  the  majority,  and 
which,  if  she  be  also  so  wise,  she  may  even 
keep  warm  for  herself,  in  a  thousand  hearts, 
for  years.  But  it  was  not  for  years,  she 
longed  that  her  country  should  benefit  through 
her  influence,  it  was  for  ages  —  to  the  end 
of  time.  And  being  so  wise,  she  trusted 
neither  to  her  woman's  beauty,  nor  her  own 
unworldly  wisdom. 

During  Geraldine's  sick  trance,  she  had 
attended  solely  to  her  ;  on  her  recovery, 
rapid  as  her  lapse  from  strength,  her  nurse 
left  her  often,  providing  her  with  every  book 
and  means  of  recreation  appertaining  to  her- 
self. Then  the  princess  shut  herself  up  in 
her  rooms  m  the  palace,  and  wrote  many 
letters,  all  with  the  same  superscription — 
all  ou  the  same  subject,  for  the  simple  reason 
ihat  she  received  no  answer  to  the  first,  nor 
second,  nor  any,  else  she  had  only  written 
one.     They  were  sent  by  special  couriers, 


who,  at  least,  had  sworn  to  di  iver  them,  anif 
swore,  on  their  return,  that  they  had  been 
delivered  into  the  proper  reciiiient's  own 
hands. 

So,  no  answer  came ;  at  last,  after  despatch- 
ing seven  letters,  all  couched  in  the  same 
tei'ms,  almost  the  identical  words,  the  prin- 
cess gave  in,  or  her  patience  gave  way.  Still 
she  staid  sedulously  in  her  seclusion,  and 
therein  assumed  an  air,  which  was  certainly 
pure  from  all  passion  save  that  of  pride,  but 
which  breathed  from  brow,  from  gesture,  an-l 
from  eye,  —  for  the  first  time,  a  pride  excel- 
ling love  ;  for  it  was  pride  outraged,  triumph- 
ing in  humanity  over  love  destroyed  ;  and 
Heaven,  in  that  human  crisis,  cannot  help 
its  children.  Adelaida,  in  her  pride,  be- 
moaned herself  over  its  very  absolute  and 
necessary  indulgence ;  for  she  had  reflected, 
had  meditated,  had  speculated,  all  in  vain, 
to  understand  why  Porphyro  had  thus  in- 
sulted, through  her  royalty,  her  womanhood. 
It  was  Porpliyro  whom,  in  all  those  letters, 
she  had  addressed;  and  Porphyro,  as  man, 
as  gentleman,  as  soldier,  as  director  —  albeit 
she  no  longer  loved  hira  —  was,  indeed,  difli- 
cult  to  realize  in  insult  towards  woman,  fre- 
quent as  had  been  his  lapses  —  unknown  to 
her  —  from  the  severity  of  virtue,  and  he  had 
actually  never  failed  in  kindness  to  any  hu- 
man being. 

There  is  limit  to  all  anguish,  unless  meant 
to  kill,  and  simple  wound  to  neither  love  nor 
pride  does  that.  The  limit  crossed  her  ex- 
istence suddenly,  and  quickly,  as  a  line  across 
the  daylight  drawn,  and  made  an  electric 
pathway.  In  fact,  by  electricity  she  was  told, 
through  silent  rushing  Avhisper  it  made  her 
ware,  that  Porphyro,  on  a  certain  day  — 
breathed,  too,  in  silent  mention  its  near  date 
—  would  visit  her.  And  that  was  all ;  no 
fate  a  woman  cherishes,  to  be  left  in  igno- 
rance of  a  man's  will  towards  her,  even  in 
so  slight  a  matter  as  a  visit ;  for  Adelaida 
was  woman  enough  to  be  sensitive  on  that 
point ;  she  would,  lovelessly  expecting  him, 
right  royally  receive  him,  in  revenge --not 
of  him,  "but  of  herself — that  she  could  not 
with  fairer  and  tenderer  honor  greet  him,  and 
because  all  yearning  for  his  coming  ceased. 

The  limit  of  the  hundred  years  sleep  made 
scarcely  livelier  noise  through  the  enchanted 
palace.  She  sent  for  the  grand  chamberlain, 
she  called  the  ministers  ;  the  decorator  of 
apartments  was  alone  with  her  for  hcfurs  in 
her  room.  Her  commands,  which  instituted 
arrangements  the  most  profuse,  the  most 
superb,  and  peremptorily  royal,  were  issued 
with  haughtiness,  with  resolution,  with  cour- 
age ;  aftecting  her  servants  unresistingly. 
Beyond  Cleopatra's  super-feminine  fascina- 
tion, or  Catherine's  brazen  sex-defiance,  or 
the  iron  tact  of  Austria's  typicial  empress, 
seemed  the  power  of  this  ])ale  girl's  will,  for 
the  first  time  breathed  in  words.  None 
questioned  the  undeniable  mystery  of  her 
I  mood ;  all  hastened  to  achieve  its  large  de- 


RUMOK. 


199 


iigns  —  vhcse  result,  like  their  "  final  cause," 
must  be  postponed  a  page  or  two. 

Time  brought  the  morning-  of  Porphyro's 
visit.  The  precise  hour  of  that  event  had 
been  left  out  of  mention,  and  Adelaida  — 
whether  it  should  prove  to  be  early  or  late 
■ —  did  not  choose  to  appear,  as  she  felt,  im- 
patient. She  therefore  lingered  long  in  her 
sleeping  chamber,  now  left  clear  to  her,  for 
Geraldine  had  been,  in  the  safest  hands  of 
all  the  world  for  her,  removed  aAvay.  Ade- 
laida wore  her  conventual  dress  —  would  she 
retain  that  ton  ?  However  that  was  to  be, 
she  now  leaned  listlessly  to  the  sight,  on  the 
sill  of  the  open  window.  Thoughts  bright 
and  dark,  like  wings  of  birds  crossing,  now 
in  sunshine,  now  in  shadow,  the  face  of  day, 
swept  softly  the  empyrean  of  her  spirit. 
That  empyrean  seemed  an  immensity  of 
solitude.  For  the  thoughts  were  not  antici- 
pations —  they  rushed  from  the  chasm  of 
the  past,  hence  their  shifting  light  and  dark- 
ness —  hence  their  incapability  to  companion 
or  console  the  present,  or  whisper  promise 
for  the  future.  In  fact,  her  mind  had 
aspired  to  that  rarest  frame,  in  which  flesh 
must  ])erish  prematurely,  unless  drawn  for- 
cibly eartliwards  by  the  warm  breath  of 
human  sympathy,  or  the  magnetism  of  long- 
suflering  love ;  too  rare  an  atmosphere  to 
breathe  in  —  too  high  above  mankind,  and 
yet  too  for  —  how  far  below  the  lowest 
heaven  !  The  dead  love's  ghost,  invisible, 
haunted  that  solitude  with  its  own  empty, 
unseen,  voiceless  presence,  making  itself 
felt  by  creating,  within  solitude  a  solitude. 
And  the  new  and  living  love  seemed  as  far 
as  Heaven,  as  unknown  as  angels'  faces,  as 
impossible  to  realize,  through  sense,  as  God 
Himself. 

These  rare  moods  beguiled  her.  Certain 
that  all  her  preparations  wi-e  complete,  she 
heeded  not  the  momenus,  as  they  melted  into 
minutes,  nor  the  minutes,  as  they  slowly 
lengthened  into  hours.  In  reality,  she  passed 
four  hours  as  it  were  thus  suspended  between 
earth  and  heaven. 

In  the  glowing,  burning  afternoon,  the 
still  hot  hour  when  the  sun  drove  all  crea- 
tures to  the  shade,  and  the  shadow  brought 
them  sleep  —  the  time  when  the  very  flowers 
seemed  to  dream,  and  the  fruit  looked 
charmed  like  the  golden  bunches  of  Hespe- 
rian groves,  when  the  lucid  sky  lay  face  to 
face  in  light  with  the  lustre-dissolved  depths 
of  the  lovely  bay  ;  then  a  great  sound  of  a 
lilver  clarion  gushed  through  space,  making 
Itself  a  way  irresistible  as  a  lightning  or  a 
wind.  Adelaida  alone,  and  vividly  awake, 
heard  it  fearfully  :  —  it  seemed  to  transfix 
her  brain,  its  echoes  thrilled  and  rang  there 
like  the  pulses  of  a  sudden  wound.  And 
before  the  old  gray  convent  walls  had  trem- 
jled  out  their  last  vibration,  a  second  salute 
pealed  silvery  —  this  time  as  breathing  soft 
as  the  shell  of  Orpheus  heard  in  the  depths 
of  the  darkest  forest.     Not  withering  into 


silence  this  —  but  proK.Aged,  and  passing 
into  a  superb  and  ardent  strain,  the  peculiar 
double-cadence,  at  once  mellow  and  ear 
piercing,  of  metallic  instruments  in  concert, 
unqualified  by  wood  or  string. 

A  bass  of  drums,  rolling  on  into  the  city's 
silence,  seemed  to  rock  the  martial  measure 
on  its  heavy  monotone,  but  not  the  maitial 
measure  only,  another  sound,  deeper  and, 
though  as  regular,  intermitted,  which  the 
melody  was  not ;  this  other  sound  seemed  to 
echo  from  under  ground  th.*  dull  throb  of  tha 
stricken  parchment  on  the  air.  And  it 
seemed  to  the  imagination  of  Adelaida.  fired 
suddenly,  like  the  tread  of  a  great  arvny 
trampling  forwards  to  destruction.  For  ar 
instant  the  listener  quailed;  she  was  «"umai 
after  all,  and  the  blood  seemed  to  i;-  a'-e  it. 
coursing,  and  stand  in  her  veins  i'.e-stil' 
The  next  it  rushed  back  to  her  heart  with 
the  courage  of  a  thousand  virgiii'j,  in  the!/ 
purity  secure.  She  waited  not  ?.  moment 
after  that — the  time  was  come  for  energy, 
if  not  action  :  sne.  nastened  into  the  coui  t- 
vard,  where  her  carriage  had  the  whole  mo'-n- 
ing  waited,  and  in  ten  minutes  more  was 
safe  within  the  palace.  Now  its  prepara- 
tions seemed  doulily  necessary,  as  guarded 
by  hundreds  of  soldiers  and  men,  they 
would  suffice  for  welcome  —  for  defiance  — 
or  for  defence. 

But  the  purest-minded  imaginative  woman 
may  mistake  a  man,  especially  a  man  she 
has  once  loved  too  carefully,  and  now  too 
carefully  dislikes.  The  silvery  blasting  chal- 
lenge had  been  a  peaceful  one,  if  triumphant 
as  pacific  ;  and  even  Adelaida  rallied,  and 
half-disdained  herself,  when  she  heaid  the 
music  and  the  march  draw  nearer  ;  knowing 
then  that  both  had  entered  at  her  gates,  and 
been  received  there  by  her  owii  e.5pecial  ser- 
vants, appointed  by  herself  tr,  .vatch  all  day 
for  Porphyro,  whose  arrival  al',  had  expected, 
without  being  aware  of  the  special  features 
which  should  invest  it. 

She  placed  herself  at  tbe  central  window 
of  the  seven  which  spread  ivide  their  crystal 
sheets  in  front  of  the  lai^est  rece])tion  room. 
She  had  not  changed  her  dress,  and  its 
sombre  quietude  contrasted  most  singularly 
with  the  dazzling  array  and  royal  superfluity 
around  her,  but  not  so  remarkably  as  with 
the  picture  which,  a  few  seconds  after  she 
had  taken  there  her  station,  dropped  as  it 
were  by  magic  before  her  eyes. 

Across  the  lawn,  whose  emerald  enamel 
sloped  half  a  mile  towards  the  bay,  there 
swept  suddenly  a  glittering  crowd  of  guards, 
not  hers,  and  drew  up  statue-still :  —  a  band, 
the  most  superbly  mounted,  and  walking 
their  horses  to  the  tune  —  now  chastened 
audibly,  while  the  drums  were  silent,  fol- 
lowed, and  arranged  themselves  at  an  angle 
with  the  guards.  The  uplifted  instruments, 
the  arms  and  harness,  gave  under  the  sun  a 
glory  like  molten  metal ;  no  eye  could  rest 
on  it   for  long.     Lastly,  across  the    double 


200 


RUMOR. 


sneen,  outshining  it  for  whiteness  and  silvery 
blaze,  was  slowly  drawn  an  equipage,  which 
with  its  eight  steeds,  whose  heads  M-ere  held 
by  sixteen  men,  closed  the  angle,  and  was 
nearest  the  frontage  of  the  palace. 

The  moment  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  this, 
and  even  before  it  rested,  the  princess  left 
the  window,  crossed  the  room,  and  passed 
down  the  broad  stair  to  the  broader  terrace. 
She  knew  her  place  as  a  woman,  and  there- 
fore advanced  not  further.  Indeed  there 
would  not  have  been  time.  The  door  of 
the  carriage  was  opened.  Porphyro  stepped 
out  immediately,  and  hastily  crossed  the 
space  still  stretched  between  them.  And  in 
that  brief  interval  she  had  recovered  her 
full  consciousness  and  control.  An  almost 
touching  impression  affected  her  just  then, 
of  the  indifference  to  circumstance  of  Por- 
phyro's  personality.  Looking' at  once  slighter 
and  stronger,  plainer  and  more  interesting 
than  ever,  dressed  simply  in  black,  without 
badge  or  ornament  to  vulgarize,  he  seemed 
more  than  ever  distinct  both  from  men  and 
their  inventions  ;  and  as  to  the  pomp  sui-- 
rounding  him,  he  was  actually  as  indepen- 
dent of  it,  even  in  his  air  unchanged  —  as  a 
woman  perfectly  beautiful  is  of  her  elegant 
drawing  room,  or  her  graceful  toilet.  He 
y\'as  himself — why  had  he  sought  assimila- 
tion with  the  many  through  a  medium  they 
despised  ?  So  questioned  Adelai'da  her  own 
taste  ;  not  yet  her  heart  responded,  for  she 
had  not  seen  all,  and  she  yet  guessed  noth- 
ing. 

Porphyro  trod  the  step  of  the  terrace  be- 
neath her,  and  without  rising  to  the  exact 
level,  sank  on  the  marble  at  her  feet.  As 
of  old  accustomed,  she  had  simply  extended 
her  hand.  For  the  first  time,  instead  of 
touching  it  with  his,  he  kissed  it.     Strange 


shadeless  indignation,  and  scarcely  masl^ed 
contempt  ?  Used  to  vain  pomp  from  her 
cradle,  how  sur])rised  or  mystified  her  this  ? 
How  stung  it  her  suspicion  ?  Alas  for  him 
this  time  ;  she  saw,  she  comprehended,  and 
she  sickened  at  the  mystery  fulfilled.  Yet, 
it  had  been  distinctly  forecast  for  her,  had 
she  but  then  regarded  it — how  long  agc>! 
Truthful  had  been  the  prophet,  who  w  &  no 
longer  there,  to  behold  the  strict  accom- 
plishment of  his  prevision. 

Accomplished  not  in  those  superb  rags  of 
purple,  nor  those  sublime  drugs  of  metal, 
nor  in  the  plumes  snow-tufted  of  the  milk- 
white  steeds  ;  nor  in  the  dazzling  panel,  on 
whose  surface  gleamed  the  iris,  with  golden 
central  ci])her  of  a  single  letter  ;  nor  in  the 
silk-soft  lining  of  the  chariot,  iris  and  star- 
besprent  ;  nor  in  the  star  and  iris,  reiterated 
on  every  breast,  save  that  of  him  who^e 
double  sign  they  were.  These  were  con- 
ceits,—  and  if  they  sprang  from  human 
vanity,  how  much  nobler  he  who  shall  re- 
veal, than  he  who  hides,  his  special  weak- 
ness. But,  stay ;  the  frame  of  the  carriage, 
raised  like  a  canopy  of  silver  frostwork, 
supported  an  imperial  crown. 

"  Grant  me  a  short  interview  alone  ;  I  will 
lead  the  way,"'  was  her  first  remark.  Its 
assurance,  rather  of  tone  than  of  phrase, 
momentarily  shook  the  world-tested  and 
emjjire  founding  audacity  of  Porphyro.  To 
pluck  the  lily  was  not  then  so  easy  —  albeit 
it  had  so  slight  a  stem,  and  frail  a  ])lossom. 
He  had  to  follow  her,  for  she  walked  on 
'•apidly.  And  though  in  his  first  youth  he 
had  dreamed,  his  dreams  were  numbered  — ■ 
the  last  approached  its  dissolution.  He  was 
wide  awake  enough  to  perceive  precisely  the 
path  they  took  ;  a  void  and  silent  path 
through    a   delicate    and    quivering    shade. 


Muorv  of  another  kiss  —  the  only  pressure  I  Incomprehensible   was    her  treatment ;    yet 


of  human  lip  she  ever  felt  —  returned  to 
her :  not  painful  as  this  new  salute,  which  in 
old  day  (so  short  a  while  ago)  she  had 
longed  for  with  all  the  jealous  innocence  of 
passion.  Now  she  drew  her  hand  back 
quickly,  she  could  not  endure  the  pressure, 
if  prolonged  —  as  it  seemed  it  might  be. 
And  ,  Porphyro  lifted  his  head  in  amaze- 
ment—  quite  sincere.  Their  eyes  met;  for 
the  first  time  his  spirit  shrank  from  its  full 
confidence  ;  —  never  had  her  eyes  faced 
him  so  serenely  or  so  long,  or  with  so  little 
trouble  in  their  gentle  glory.  And  —  stranger 
still —  she  addressed  him  at  once  in  accents 
intimate  and  haughty  —  too  haughty  for 
a  woman  in  the  sweet  suspense  of  hope, 
too  intimate  for  a  woman  who  loves  pro- 
foundly, with  as  much  modesty  as  pas- 
sion. 

"  1  rejoice  to  see  you,  for  your  presence 
assures  me  of  your  consent  to  my  arrange- 
ment. Now  excuse  me  but  for  an  instant ; 
—  my  curiosity  is  strongly  excited.  I  ex- 
pected you  as  uminl.  —  And  I  see 


he  could  not  com]3lain,  for  where  she  took 
him,  thither  she  also  went.  It  was  to  the 
convent,  and  she  gave  him  no  rest  nor  satis- 
faction until  the  door  of  her  own  chamber 
was  closed,  and  they  within  it.  Never  had 
Porphyro's  nerves  received  a  shock  at  once 
so  subtle  and  so  violent ;  the  change  from 
the  dazzling  show  which  lately  framed  him 
as  its  idea,  to  the  colorless  and  alinost  grim 
seclusion  round  him  7ioiv,  was  not  so  stun 
ning  as  the  difference  between  his  late  cer- 
tainty of  success  in  love,  and  his  present 
depression  of  that  conviction  —  to  what 
was  actually,  though  he  refused  himself  so 
to  recognize  it  —  despaiif, 

"  Sit  down,  pray,"  said  Adelaida,  kindly 
but  very  calmly  ; "  "  you  must  be  fatigued'. 
Indeed,  it  is  a  pity  you  took  the  trouble 
to  come;  a  written  reply  would  have  suf- 
ficed." 

"  How  can  you  —  I  had  almost  said,  how 
dare  you  —  meet  me  thus  ?  I  come  to  be- 
stow what  you  have  so  long  deserved  — 
what   so   long   I    yearned   to   give   you.     1 


What  saw  she  that  filled  her  glance  with  1  have  filled  the  world  with  my  name ;  I  am 


RUMOR. 


201 


at  last,  not  worthy,  but  as  worthy  as  one 
so  unworthy  ever  cotdd  be  —  of  your  love." 

She  recoiled  step  by  step,  for  step  by  step 
he  pressed  towards  her.  Anger  had  rekin- 
dled his  smothered  love ;  its  splendors  lit 
the  faded  sea-hue  of  his  eyes,  and  pride 
frowned  dai'kly  pallid  from  his  forehead. 
Two  such  passions  never  struggled  in  em- 
brace so  close,  so  strong ;  one  must  destroy 
the  other,  or  both  die. 

At  last  she  touched  the  wall  of  the  narrow 
room.  Still  he  advanced,  and  with  a  ges- 
ture at  once  supplicating  and  imperious, 
stretched  out  his  hands.  They  fell  upon 
her  robe  and  glided  down  its  folds,  for  her 
handfi  were  close  gathered  to  her  bosom. 
At  his  touch  u])on  her  raiment  she  shook  it, 
removing  her  hands  for  the  purpose  —  then 
crossed  them  as  before.  At  that  sign  of 
what  he  thought  to  be  a  super-refined  co- 
quetry of  action,  he  fell  back  to  the  opposite 
corner. 

"  Strange  conduct,  strange  reply,"  she 
said,  "  whether  meant  as  assent  or  negative 
to  my  request." 

"  Nor  do  I  understand,"  he  answered ; 
and  sudden  dejection  struck  through  his 
voice.  The  painful  accent  called  upon  her 
vast  benevolence ;  she  had  not  ftieant  to 
hurt  a  mitn,  only  to  keep  a  lover  from  her 
presence. 

"  Forgive  me  ;  I  was  perhaps  ungrateful, 
for  it  was  good  of  you  to  come.  I  grant 
you  have  many  rights  to  be  displeased,  but 
you,  who  are  so  generous,  remember  mine." 

"Yours  —  your  rights?  Ah,  brightest, 
who  remembers  them  as  I  ?  Am  I  not  here 
to  j)rotect  them  in  protecting  you  ?  " 

"  Peace,  peace  !  "  Her  spirit  rose  again. 
"Must  I  remind  you,  that  I  —  whom,  as  a 
woman,  you  have  neither  understood  nor 
treated  with  consideration  —  that  I  did  not 
address  you  in  a  strain  to  deserve  this  re- 
sponse. That  I  asked  you  a  question  con- 
cerning a  state  secret  between  us  —  a  state 
secret  between  two  sovereigns,  not  between 
a  woman  and  a  man." 

Porphyro  changed  from  pallor  to  a  wan- 
ness in  which  witherfed  the  last  tint  of  life. 
His  eyes  were  dropped,  but  not  with  the 
old  crafty  fascination.  Adelaida  had  to  call 
all  her  courage  from  her  virgin  conscience 
in  order  to  carry  on  the  interview,  so  deeply 
did  it  pain  her  to  see  that  look,  which,  if  not 
shame,  Mas  pride  in   closest  contact  with  it 

—  "  high  places  made  low." 

"  Listen,"  she  said,  in  a  gentle  voice,  that 
was  yet  cold  as  icicles  that  drop  on  the  im- 
penetrable marble.  "  I  do  believe  you  are 
a  great  man  ;  you  are,  in  comparison  with 
most  old  rulers,  and  all  the  rulers  of  this 
age,  a  good  man.  But  there  was  a  time 
when  I  thought  you  best  of  all  in  every  age 

—  1  thought  you  perfect.  Ah,  well  have  I 
been  punished  !  You  knew  it :  you  also 
knew  that  you  made  me  unhappy,  else  your 
face  would  not  change,  your  eyes  would  not 

26 


lower,  in  my  sight,  weak  creature  that  I  am, 
and  full  of  faults.  You  knew  I  was  un- 
happy, and  you  let  me  suffer." 

"  I  suffered  myself,"  said  Porphyro,  sim- 
ply, brought  down  to  strict  fact  by  her  plain- 
s]:)eaking,  how  impossible,  if  she  still  loved 
him,  how  unlike  her  when  she  did! 

"  I  knew  it.  Stay  !  I  throw  myself  on 
your  generosity ;  for  no  woman,  perhaps, 
ever  spoke  so  freely  to  a  man  before.  That 
is  scarcely  my  fault,  however;  for  I  was 
afraid  once  to  whisper  in  your  presence,  lest 
1  should  displease  you.  Yes,  I  thought  you 
perfect  then." 

"  Is  any  perfect  upon  earth  ?"  asked  Pt-- 
phyro,  pointedly ;  but  the  point  was  blunt 
—  the  weapon  uselessly  recoiled. 

"  There  is  one  individual,  whose  circum- 
stances, if  not  himself,  have  attained,  in  his 
own  eyes,  perfection.  I  am  sure,  at  least, 
that  half  an  hour  ago  he  thought  so ;  that 
he  thought,  before  God  and  man,  he  had 
realized  a  perfect  destiny.  And  a  man's 
circumstances  are  always  set  down  to  his 
chai-actp-  by  me:. ;  just  as  chance  is  God  to 
most  of  them.  After  saying  so  much,  may 
I  speak  further  ?  " 

"  Speak  always,  even  if  to  torture  me." 
And,  to  do  him  justice,  he  looked  as  if  his 
pride,  if  not  his  love,  was  racked. 

"  I  wrote  to  you  ingenuously,  trustingly, 
not  as  a  woman.  That,  however,  I  have 
said  before.  I  addressed  your  honor  and 
your  intellect.  I  wished  to  give  you  some- 
thing which  would  enable  you  to  benefit 
mankind.  Little  knew  I  how  enormously 
you  had  benefited  by  men.  I  desired  you  to 
accept  my  kingdom,  which,  small  as  it  is,  I 
am  unfit  to  govern ;  to  wear  my  crown, 
which,  Hght  and  little  as  it  is,  is  too  heavy 
with  responsibility  for  me  to  wear.  And 
how  do  you  reply  ?  How  do  you  venture  to 
come,  unbidden  .^  " 

"  AdelaMa !  " 

"Yes,  unbidden.  Do  you  think  I  am  a 
woman  to  beckon  a  man  to  my  hand ;  or  to 
wish  a  man  near  my  heart,  when  he  has  di- 
vided himself  from  that  suffering  which  all 
life  has  been  my  life  ?  Should  I  have  in- 
vited you?  Did  I  not  rather  command'? 
And  did  my  heart  sound  in  my  invitation? 
Are  you  too  modest  inwardly,  despite  yoox 
outletting  pride,  to  take  my  meaning :  that 
my  conscience,  not  my  heart,  had  written 
your  name  on  its  fair  face,  as  fan'  as  it  ?  1 
knew  how  you  could  govern  ;  and  I  would 
have  had  you,  as  I  would  have  you  still, 
include  my  poor  section  of  misguided  and 
tormented  humanity  under  your  great  direc- 
tion and  strong  control.  I  knew  not  then 
what  you  had  further  taken  for  yourself  — 
wasted  at  your  subjects'  expense." 

Porphyro  was  alarmed  ;  he  had  only  read 
women  in  their  common  cipher ;  this  char- 
acter,  his  passion,  in  adoring  its  fleshy  tab- 
ernacle, had  overlooked, 
j      "  Surely,"  he  remonstrated,  "  you  do  not 


202 


RUMOR. 


treat  me  thus,  becaust  I  have  earned  — 
what  I  might  say,  if  any  might,  that  I  de- 
Bere  —  a  crown." 

"  Did  I  not  entreat  you  to  attend,  to  bear 
with  nie  ?  I  have  gone  from  my  meaning, 
but,  indeed,  I  am  bewildered  and  unhappy. 
In  losing  you,  I  lost  much,  Porphyro." 

"But  I  come  to  claim  you  —  to  give  my- 
self  " 

"  Silence ! "  she  answered,  thrillingly. 
"  Will  you  never  understand  ?  Do  you 
think  I  am  a  person  to  waste  words 
vagufly  ?  to  torture  myself  besides  for  wil- 
fulness ?  " 

"  At  once  —  only  once,  hear  me  plainly," 
he  broke  in,  actually  at  onoe  too  literal  and 
too  impassioned  to  believe  she  was  sincere 
in  her  retreat,  and  too  ignorant  to  appre- 
hend rightly  what  she  hinted.  "  At  once,  I 
offer  you  my  crown,  my  hand,  my  love  ;  will 
you  take  them  ?  Answer  me,  and  quickly  ; 
for,  hard  as  you  think  me,  I  tremble." 

He  really  trembled  ;  never  before  had  she 
given  him  credit  for  that  sign  of  weakness 
strong  men  disdain  themselves  for,  but  all 
women  honor  in  them. 

"  I  am  truly  sorry  that  you  asked  me  ; 
you  might  have  spared  —  I  wished  you  to 
spare  us  both.     I  cannot  marry  you." 

Porphyro  had  been  shot  at  in  the  streets 
three  times,  and  never  started  ;  had  ])hilos- 
ophized  twice  in  prison,  when  sent  therefor 
life ;  had  speculated  forty  years  on  the  pos- 
sible reversion  to  him  of  an  old,  old  doom, 
by  all  but  himself  deemed  dead,  and  at  last 
realized  it.  He  had,  in  fact,  received  so 
many  shocks  with  so  much  calmness,  that 
he  met  this  lilow  worthily  —  that  is,  as 
becomes  a  worldly  man,  whose  dignity 
is  a  jewel  even  dearer  to  him  than  his 
honor. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  he  replied,  and  ceased 
trembling  in  her  sight  by  a  mighty  effort, 
wbich  drove  his  passion  inwards  and  for- 
ever. "  You  would  have  been  the  ornament 
of  the  throne — the  best  crown  of  the  em- 
pire; I  say  nothing  of  myself;  my  com- 
plaint is  not  for  your  ears,  as  my  affliction 
cannot  touch  your  heart." 

"  You  shall  not  assume  misconception.  I 
loved  you  when  I  saw  you  —  you  made  me 
love  you  ;  I  had  none  else  to  love,  and  Nature 
had  for  me  no  soul,  for  then  none  of  her 
children  loved  me.  You  asked  more  woo- 
ingly  than  in  words,  for  my  love.  I  gave  it 
freely.  Then  you  received  it  without  re- 
sponse ;  it  was  so  you  treated  a  virtuous 
woman,  as  if  she  had  thrust  herself  on  your 
notice  publicly.  You  drew  out  my  whole 
heart,  as  the  sun  opens  a  flower  to  himself, 
and  then  your  icebolt  withered  it." 

Porphyro  was  aghast.  It  is  not  too  much 
to  say,  that  through  her  vivid  representation 
of  what  a  less  chaste  woman  would  have  con- 
cealed, he  fii-st  caught  a  glimpse  of  his  own 
error.  Irreparable  now !  For  the  pain  and 
ehauie  she  had  perceived  at  fii-st  came  not 


from  a  cause  she  suspected,  but  from  one 
less  noble  and  les^  manly,  if  more  admirable 
in  the  world's  wide  shallow  gaze.  He  had 
felt  pained,  because  she  bent  not  to  him  as 
of  old  ;  she  no  longer  adored  him,  and  he 
loved  adoration  ;  he  could  no  longer  mastei 
her,  she  controlled  herself.  But  he  had  felt 
ashamed,  because  he  had  deceived  her  in  his 
desik'ns  from  the  beginning,  and  had  wrcught 
the  deception  to  make  way  for  himself  to 
escape  from  her  contempt,  in  case  he  failed. 
If  she  knew  not  he  had  aspired  to  a  crown, 
she  would  neither  pity  nor  despise  him  fur 
not  attaining  it.  But  now,  what  had  been 
his  error,  or  vi\\dt  felt  he  his  error  now  ?  He 
had  not  loved  enough  ;  his  love  had  not  been 
strong  enough,  nor  all-sufficient  to  direct  his 
passion  rightly  ;  he  relied  too  much  upon  her 
faith,  a  thing  so  frail  and  fleeting  in  a  woman 
who  is  loved  with  less  than  a  man's  whole 
power ;  though  in  her,  beloved  to  the  utmost 
and  honorably  worshipped,  the  faith  is  a 
thing  eternal  and  of  eternal  freshness. 

Still,  it  Mas  not  in  Porphyro  to  convict 
himself  oi  this  error,  even  felt,  unconvicted 
by  her  ;  nor  was  it  in  him  to  give  up  directly  ; 
he  too  ardently  desired  success  in  this  his 
scheme,  for  it  was  a  scheme  in  which  other 
hopes  wet-e  conceinied  than  those  alone  of 
love. 

"  You  will,  at  least,  explain  to  me  the 
reason.  Is  it  simply  because  I  have  attained 
supremacy,  whose  sign  you  do  not  recognize 
as  one  of  which  I  forewarned  you  ?  Or  is 
it  because  I  delayed  my  hopes,  you  punish 
me  ?  —  because  1  esteemed  myself,  in  my 
mere  person  and  character,  unworthy  of 
yours  ?  If  I  mistook,  have  not  great  men 
mistaken  ?  Were  not  women  the  first  to 
pardon  —  the  last  to  punish  such  ?  " 

"  To  pardon  —  to  punish  !  —  how  dare 
you  so  address  me?  To  punish  —  above 
all,  to  punish  one  who  has  injured  me,  is  not 
my  way.  And  one  who  has  not  injured  me, 
how  shall  I  even  pardon"?  If  you  will  be 
told,  you  shall  hear.  Heaven  is  my  witness, 
I  would  have  avoided  both.  I  wrote  to  you 
on  purpose.  I  might  have  said  it  was  because 
you  deceived  me  ;  there  was  a  time  when  it 
would  have  been  the  truth  ;  and  though  hard 
it  would  have  been  to  myself  to  refuse  you 
then  I  would  have  done  it.  I  might  also 
have  averred  it  was  because  you  kept  me  in 
suspense  ;  for  long  and  long  was  the  loneli- 
ness you  had  created  for  me  in  making  my 
heart  need  you.  But  not  these  reasons 
together  now  suffice  ;  they  are  but  a  part  of 
the  truth,  and  not  its  essence.  I,  too,  have 
erred,  and  I  confess  it.  I  have  swerved  from 
faith  in  you.  But  I  wish  not  to  add  hypoc- 
risy to  natural  failing.  I  wish  to  be  honest, 
and  tell  you  that  I  dare  not  marry  you,  be- 
cause I  no  longer  love  you.  This  is  the  real, 
and  should  be  the  only  reason." 

There  was  silence  —  she  hoped  he  would 
not  break  it ;  she  hoped  he  would  depart. 
She  tui-n«d  from  him  to  the  window  sill,  and 


RUMOR. 


203 


the  light  fell  on  every  line  of  her  face  —  no 
shade  was  there.  He  came  a  little  forward 
to  examine  it,  to  find  if  there  were  but  a 
shade  of  pily,  or  ray  of  fond  regret.  And  he 
saw  how  soft,  yet  grave,  was  the  expression 
—  the  glance  heaven-directed,  filled  with 
what  seemed  quenchless,  if  it  were  tearless, 
nielanclioly.  So,  like  a  person  at  once  pas- 
sionate and  perverse,  he  would  not  give  up 
hope  because  she  bade  him,  while  yet  she 
showed  herself  unhappy  in  the  least  degree, 
if  far,  far  happier  than  himself.  Rather,  in 
such  a  nature,  hope,  stricken  from  its  near 
summit  of  certainty,  prevailed  too  lowly,  too 
prayerfully  in  self-revenge  ;  and  pride  could 
prevail  no  longer  against  the  selfishness, 
which,  in  that  hour,  revenged  itself  on  her 
because  she  could  not  gratify  it. 

"  It  is  cruel  —  cruel  —  and  crudest,  be- 
cause so  utterly  unlike  you  —  you  have  torn 
your  own  image,  like  that  of  an  angel,  from 
its  shrine,  —  never  again  shall  I  so  behold 
you,  unhappy  that  I  am  !  Unlike  you,  as  I 
knew  you,  and  adored  you,  to  dash  the  cup 
from  thirsty  lips  !  And  to  judge  hardly, 
harshly,  bitterly,  is  more  unlike  you.  You 
did  not  so  judge  the  dead,  whom  in  life  you 
could  not  honor.  You  did  not  so  judge  the 
murderer,  whose  escape  you  sealed  with 
your  free  permission — nor  the  innocent, 
who  died  too  soon  for  you  to  save,  and  ] 
whose  sanctified  memory  you  have  written 
saintlier  than  any  canonization." 

All  the  world  by  this  time  knew  the  story 
of  the  innocent  who  had  sufl'ered,  and  the 
guilty  who  had  gone  free,  nameless  the 
latter,  the  former  blazoned  every  where,  as 
on  a  pure  white  stone. 

"  You  have  broken  my  heart  —  you  have 
crushed  my  pride  —  you  have  stoned  to 
death  my  hap])iness  —  and  under  it  my 
usefulness  Mill  be  buried  ;  how  can  I  labor 
the  dry  length  of  life,  uncomforted  —  [ 
alone  ?  "  He  continued  bitterly ;  —  "  You 
will  be  answerable  for  my  errors,  for  you 
alone  could  convict  me  of  them,  could  de- 
stroy them,  could  charm  my  being  from  the 
groMth  of  fresh  ones.  Waste,  wild,  and 
overrun  -with  weeds,  will  be  my  pathway , 
now.  ...  It  would  have  bloomed  a 
garden,  whose  increase  would  have  blessed 
humanity  to  farthest  time  ;  its  flowers  would  j 
have  sprung  beneath  your  smiles,  its  fruits 
your  presence  would  have  ripened  in  me. 
For  your  smile  is  all  the  encouragement 
after  which  I  languish  ;  your  frown  alone  is 
condemnation  to  me.  ...  A  tear  shed 
on  my  bosom  would  have  melted  my  heart 
to  all  mine  enemies,  and  a  kiss  have  sealed 
my  peace  with  the  whole  world.  Now  my 
sceptre  shall  be  a  rod  of  iron,  my  crown  shall 
not  be  colder  or  more  sunless  than  the  sur- 
face of  my  soul  presented  to  the  universe. 
And  for  this  you  have  lived  —  you,  a  weak 
and  tender  woman  ;  shelterless,  unprotected  ; 
\nd  alone.  Yes,  alone  —  as  I." 
No  need  for  the  failing  voice,  the  smoth- 


ered sigh,  the  retreat  still  hastier,  yet  farther, 
towards  the  door.  His  words  had  done  the 
work  ;  they  Avere  forged  like  acts  in  the  brain, 
to  do.  At  first  threatening  almost,  and  then 
wholly  subdued  ;  in  both  cases,  their  power 
came  from  the  soft,  soft  voice,  whose  pathos 
was  Mon  from  will  —  not  from  nature  over- 
brimmed with  inward  tears  and  fointing  in 
supplication.  Poor  girl,  poor  woman,  late- 
loving,  but  now  beloved !  here  struck  Por- 
phyro  a  bolder  stroke,  disguising  its  double 
edge  and  chilling  mettle,  with  the  tendernes? 
that  breathed  on  both  a  mist  too  soft  fo; 
tears,  yet  containing  the  soul  of  tears,  as 
white     mist    of    the    morning    holds    the 

dew 

Had  she  been  selfish  ?  had  she  studied  her 
own  pi-ide,  petted  her  own  heart,  too  much  ? 
spiritualized  her  aspirations  too  highly?  And 
he  suffered.  He  had  deceived  her,  had  tor- 
tured her  faith  with  needless  trial,  but  still 
he  loved  her.     Faithful,  when  she  had  follen 

from  faith What  mattered  it, 

if  she  married  him  ?  none  would  guess  her 
secret  history,  and  he  who  had  contemplated 
her  defection  towards  him,  was  now  —  in 
the  moment  of  sharpest  test  —  right  ready 
to  forgive  it,  and  receive  her,  in  face  of  the 
whole  world,  his  wife.  ...  Of  what  use 
to  that  world,  alone  and  crownless,  could  she 
be?  And  now,  if  through  ker  he  went 
astray  ? 

Now  this  mood  was  no  contemptible  de- 
cline in  resolve  from  weakness  moral,  nor 
sentimental  excitation  of  the  sex ;  she  was 
incapable  of  either.  But  he  had  done  the 
best  for  himself,  in  representing  himself  as 
dependent  on  her  in  the  least  and  lowest 
degree.  Never  was  woman  in  so  lone  a 
plight — without  parents,  or  fraternal  friends 
or  sisters.  The  last  of  a  race  extinct,  if  she 
died  childless,  and  unnoticed  in  history,  if 
she  died  unmarried ;  these  two  facts  might 
have  driven  another  Avoman  straight  into  the 
shelter  and  recognized  honor  of  matrimony. 
But  they  would  have  deterred  her.  Still  to 
be  alone  —  to  have  no  bosom  friend  nor  life- 
enwoven  intimate.  Above  all,  to  be  of  use 
—  to  aid  another  —  another  who  yearned  for 
her  as  companion  more  than  mistress ;  to  be 
represented  —  to  be  believed.  Never  had 
her  happiness,  her  safety,  nor  her  real  value 
as  an  individual,  been  in  such  danger.  She 
turned  suddenly,  deeply-touched  and  truth- 
fully, by  all  the  conflicting  impressions  of  her 
soul,  her  conscience,  'ind  her  mind :  not  her 
heart,  that  beat  still  and  changeless  under 
all.  She  beheld  a  countenance  which  had 
once  attracted,  and  now  as  physically  re- 
pelled her  ;  it  was  stamped  with  stern  depres- 
sion, fast  cooling  down,  like  iron  lately  hot, 
to  a  determinate  and  endurant  hardness  ;  — 
should  that  iron  enter  his  soul  at  her  pleas- 
ure, and  for  her  pleasure  only? 

Porphyro,  Avithout  looking,  saw  his  ad- 
vantage, and  took  advantage  of  it ;  —  what 
lover,  whose  whole   aim  is  earthly,  would 


204 


RUMOR. 


not  ?  He  advanced  towards  her  ;  he  lingered 
in  advancing,  she  trembled,  but  no  longer 
shrunk  away.  Her  eyes  filled  with  a  sudden 
dew,  which  she  had  not  thought  would  swell 

—  she  only  felt  the  swelling  at  her  inmost 
heart  —  the  yearning  for  another  too  far 
away,  whom  nature,  true  to  herself,  would 
yearn  for  in  the  place  of  one  too  near.  And 
the  tears  saved  her,  for  she  would  not  have 
this  one  behold  them,  nor  ofier  to  wipe  them 
from  her  eyes.  She  raised  her  hand,  which 
in  another  instant  she  might  have  out- 
stretched towards  him,  eternally  beyond 
recall.  She  raised  it  to  her  eyes,  and 
covered  them,  and  longed  out  of  the  sud- 
den darkness  for  some  other  Light  than 
light. 

While  doing  so  there  came  an  answer,  a 
soft  and  nearly  noiseless  rustle,  lower  than 
the  south  wind's  summer  breath,  stiller  than 
the  shiver  of  the  air  through  the  tops  of  the 
long  grass,  withal  as  palpable  as  each,  and 
more  living  than  both  together.  In  a  mo- 
ment more,  the  sound  passed  into  a  touch 

—  a  touch  ineffable,  without  pressure  or 
detention,  least  like  human  fingers,  and  im- 
parting no  hint  of  human  presence.  She 
snatched  her  hand  away  —  she  looked  ;  and 
through  the  dim  rainbow-twinkle  of  the  sup- 
pressed tear-drops,  she  beheld  her  carrier 
dove.  The  darling  of  her  regrets,  the  idol 
of  her  longings,  had  returned  —  and  not  too 
late 

K^cept  for  itself!  —  The  constant,  aspir- 
ing creature,  who  shall  name  it  soulless? 
Except  for  itself — too  late  for  it  —  it  had 
touched  her  hand,  in  token  of  faith  fulfilled 
unto  the  end,  and  faith's  farewell,  then  fallen 
on  her  bosom.     It  would  have  fallen  lower 

—  its  impulse  was  extinct  —  but  that  she 
caught  it,  and  pressed  its  beak  to  her  living 
lips,  and  tried  to  breathe  into  it,  and  held  its 
feet  in  her  warm  palm  in  vain  ;  relaxed  and 
chill,  they  took  no  hold.  Too  long  had 
been  its  way  across  the  airy  wilderness,  and 
weariness  had  spent  itself  to  death.  Its 
eyes,  Avhose  brilliant  circles  had  expressed  a 
love  that  shamed  all  human  tenderness, 
whose  glance  fixed  on  one  far  point  unseen, 
had  surpassed  all  human  constancy,  had 
dropped  under  a  dull  film.  It  had  won  its 
rest,  and  eai-ned  it.  Ah,  that  our  rest  might 
be  won  from  our  desert,  and  earned  so  well, 
fiweet  dove ! 

Over  no  human  grave  had  Adelaida  ever 
wept,  no  death  she  had  ever  mourned.  But 
now  she  felt  as  though,  in  naming  herself 
friendless  and  forlorn,  she  had  overlooked  a 
treasure,  a  friend,  a  sister,  or  a  soul  who 
loved  her  best.  Her  tears  burst  forth  with- 
out control.  Porphyro's  presence  was  nei- 
ther preventive  nor  restraint.  Over  the 
Boft  dead  thing  she  wept  such  tears,  as 
while  he  saw  them,  he  jealously  coveted. 
At  that  instant  he  felt  as  if  he  would  die,  so 
to  be  wept  for  by  her ;  so  lamented  even  for 
one  short  hour. 


But  his  mood  changed,  when  she  untied  a 
paper  —  only  a  slip  of  paper  —  beneath  its 
wing.  He  had  not  ex])ected  that ;  he  did 
not  even  identify  the  feathered  angel  as  a 
carrier-pigeon  ;  in  these  days  seldom  sent 
except  on  errands  of  speechless  or  separated 
lovers. 

"Few  and  short"  were  the  words  of 
the  message  for  which  she  had  (uncon- 
sciously) waited  ;  yet  they  saved  her  —  the/ 
came  before  the  sacrifice  she  was  about  to 
make  was  otlered.  Offered  —  even  if  not 
accepted  —  had  the  sacrifice  been,  that  mes- 
sage would  have  come  too  late. 

It  Avas  but  a  slip  —  a  scrap  —  and  it  car- 
ried only  these  expressions.  "  I  have  been 
mad  once,  and  I  afn  going  mad  again,  if 
they  leave  me  here.  I  am  not  mad  now, 
when  I  call  on  you  to  deliver  me  —  to  come 
to  me ;  your  presence  alone  can  save  me. 
And  I  ask  no  more."  It  was  dated  from  the 
House  of  Health,  at  a  certain  town  in  north- 
ern Prussia  ;  sufficient  to  guide  her  thither, 
though  she  knew  not  the  direction  nor  the 
road. 

Porphyro  was  not  disinterested.  He  Avas 
even  selfish,  as  we  have  shown.  But  on  see- 
ing her  face  —  or  its  unspeakable  change 
from  misery  to  joy,  as  she  oj^ened  and  read 
the  little  note,  his  purpose  changed,  or 
rather  turned  to  the  temper  he  should  have 
shown  at  first.  Of  course,  he  thought  of  a 
lover  —  that  was  to  Ije  expected  ;  of  course, 
he  was  jealous,  therefore  his  pride  rallied ; 
of  course,  he  blamed  the  unknown  for  hav- 
ing ravished  her  love  from  him.  And  he 
would  have  blamed  her  if  he  could,  but,  to 
do  him  justice,  he  loved  her  too  much  not 
to  desire  her  happiness ;  and  once  con- 
vinced that  it  depended  on  another,  he 
was  ready — almost  willing  —  to  give  up  his 
cause. 

"  A  message  from  a  friend  ?  "  he  observed 
haughtily  —  he  had  meant  to  tone  it  humbly. 

"  From  a  friend  in  trouble,"  answered  she, 
with  real  humility  —  which  through  .ove 
sounded  proud. 

Next  day,  at  the  hour  of  noon,  Belvidere 
learned  the  reason  for  which  the  extraordi- 
nary preparations  had  been  made  —  the 
consummation  of  state  accomplished  in  the 
council-chamber  of  the  kingdom,  before  rep- 
resentatives gathered  from  every  class  ; 
Adelaida  —  not  renounced  her  rights  —  but 
made  them  over  to  another.  Porpliyro, 
standing  at  her  side,  accepted  her  gift  in  a 
short  speech  —  the  most  heartily  eloquent 
he  ever  made.  He  pledged  himself  to  do 
his  best  for  her  people,  and  nobly  redeemed 
his  pledge.  But  those,  who  listening  to  the 
strong  words  of  the  Emperor  of  Iris,  had 
known  him  as  the  untitled  and  cosmopolitan 
Porphyro,  remarked  a  pale  languor  in  his 
countenance,  a  subtle  air  of  self-reproach, 
and,  above  all,  a  steadfast  melancholy,  which 
had  not  belonged  to  him  in  those  old  iroQ 


RUMOR. 


205 


days  when  Fate  was  barren  for  him,  and  the 
Heavens  over  his  petition  "  as  brass."  Was 
it  the  golden  doom  that  thus  affected  him 
with  man's  least  earthly  passion  —  gratitude 
—  or  a  deeper  mystery  still,  which  none  in- 
terpreted—  chai-ged  with  no  golden  happi- 
ness, nor  treasure  more  precious  than  gold  ? 


CHAPTER    XXXIV. 

Had  Rodomant  been  really  mad  ?  Did 
ever  any,  who  had  really  been  mad,  confess 
it  on  his  return  to  sanity  ?  They  say  so  — 
but  like  many  questions  of  the  school  of 
medicine  (dumb  and  deaf  oracle  to  the  mil- 
lion) it  may  be  answered  with  more  chance 
of  touching  near  the  truth,  by  the  technically 
ignorant,  than  by  the  professionally  taught. 
May  not  frenzy  counterfeit  be  more  terrible 
to  its  victim  than  real  frenzy  ?  seeing  that, 
in  the  former  case,  the  reason  unwarped 
grasps  the  agony  of  the  nerves  with  appre- 
ciation. And  is  it  strange  that  common 
men  misname  them  —  honestly,  through 
mistake  of  the  awful  nature  duplicate,  which 
seems  identical  ?  But  it  may  be  almost  cer- 
tainly asserted  that  of  real  madness,  as  of 
actual  death,  none  give  us  evidence  in  ex- 
planation. It  seems  m  madness  counterfeit 
—  the  insane  condition  of  the  nerves  de- 
pressed or  overwrought  —  and  which  in- 
duces a  perfect  raving  after  sympathy  and  a 
tongue  unchained  in  self-confessions,  as  it 
seems  in  trance  —  tfiat  counterfeit  death 
which  physicians  tremble  to  announce,  and 
cannot  mastpr,  and  from  whose  dread  phase 
of  suspension  the  wakened  sleeper  tells  such 
strange  sweet  stories  of  what  it  has  seen, 
and  heard,  and  felt ;  the  ecstasies,  the  music, 
the  meeting  of  old  friends  in  new  bright 
homes.  But  they  who  were  restored  from 
death --real  deaths  by  miracle,  of  their 
experience  gave  no  sign.  Nor  do  the  mad, 
restored. 

The  sternest  apostle  of  the  t\v«;\lve  orders 
parents  not  to  ])rovoke  their  children.  A 
master  of  modern  writers,  who  has  a  voice, 
thrillingly  reminded  jjarents  —  who  expect 
aJl  duty  from  their  children  —  to  fulfil  at 
least  first  their  own  duty  towards  those  they 
bare.  But  yet,  with  the  misery  which  fills 
the  earth  through  their  injudiciousness,  their 
injustice,  their  ignorance  —  parents  are 
neither  charged  nor  connected.  In  fact,  in 
common  cases  of  ordinary  characters,  the 
sufferings  entailed  on  children  after  their 
fii-st  infancy  are,  as  it  were,  a  part  of  educa- 
tional discipline  —  wholesome  of  course, 
perhaps  necessary,  and  it  may  be  even 
kindly,  as  it  tends  to  prepare  them  for  the 
earthly  discipline  of  experience,  and  the 
heavenly  discipline  of  sorrow.  Such  char- 
acters in  routiue  ordinarily  survive  the  mis- 


understandings and  nistreatments  of  their 
childhood,  without  injury  to  their  mora, 
constitutions,  or  check  to  their  mental 
growth.  But  not  so  the  exceptional,  who 
in  every  estate  and  rank,  the  farther  they  be 
indrawn  from  general  sympathy,  and  the 
less  they  resemble  their  routine  companions, 
the  less  meet  special  sympathy  —  the  more 
are  distanced  by  the  little  competition  of 
the  equal  crowd.  Above  all,  in  their  homes, 
where  they  naturally  expect  tenderness  and 
forbearance  —  those  elements  of  sympathy 
—  as  their  due,  they  cannot  exact  either, 
for,  in  the  majority,  they  do  not  exist.  The 
super-Spartan  hardness  and  heart-defian:e 
of  parents  towards  their  children  results  less 
from  secretly  indulged  selfishness  than  from 
callous  vanity  —  the  old  idea  (fit  to  be  ex- 
ploded with  bloody  nursery  horrors  and 
blackest  fables  of  the  supreme  evil)  that  the 
young  think  their  elders  fools,  but  the  elder 
knmo  the  young  to  be  so. 

This  conscienceless  indifference  to  the  life 
within,  this  heartless  supervision  of  the  life 
without,  often  and  often  seal  premature  de- 
velopment—  always  so  delicate  and  so  ar- 
dent—  for  quick  disease  —  disease  that  kills. 
Happy,  thrice  happy,  those  who  die — die  to 
be  numbered  and  glorified  with  the  martyr- 
dom of  innocence.  But  most  unhappy  those, 
who,  physically  resistant,  or  strong-spirited 
sufficiently,  survive  —  survive,  to  endure  the 
blight  of  the  intellect,  that  should  have 
opened  in  perfection  ;  the  atony  of  the  natu- 
ral affections  —  the  long  life-sickness  of  the 
exhausted  heart. 

Rodomant  had  been  one  of  those  unlucky 
for  their  own  comfort,  if  world-esteemed 
fortunate  beings,  a  child  of  genius,  with  its 
peculiar  faults  and  mysterious  virtues,  soar- 
ing strength  and  saddening  weakness.  From 
his  childhood  misunderstood,  he  had  suffered 
less  from  mistreatment  than  from  the  loneli- 
ness engendered  by  it,  and  so  far  its  result. 
But  still,  at  times,  his  preoccupation  with 
art,  ever  a  healer,  better  than  Nature,  of 
human  nature  lacking  human  sympathy,  had 
conquered  suffering  and  dispelled  loneli- 
ness. During  the  full  health  of  the  faculties 
pertaining-*  to  the  imaginative  mould,  the 
delicious  freshness  of  young  creation,  sweeter 
than  the  freshness  of  youth  or  spring,  he 
perceived  not  his  own  want  of  a  parent's 
heart  to  sustain,  rather  than  a  parent's  wis- 
dom to  instruct.  But  in  alternative  seasons, 
when  the  idjjjal  lay  hueftss  and  spiritless 
round  him,  as  a  sky  under  universal  cloud, 
he  suffered  negatively  and  dully,  his  pi'ide 
would  not  give  the  suffering  a  name,  and  the 
sense  of  duty,  which  generally  coexists  with 
innocence,  prevailed  too  powerfully  to  allow 
him  to  trace  the  torment  to  its  cause. 
Further  than  this,  so  long  as  his  genius 
was  new,  and  his  senses  were  responsive 
to  all  impressions,  his  mother's  narrow 
views  and  dry  existence  affected  him  not, 
any   more   than   the   valley   mists    obscura 


£06 


BUMOR. 


the  vision  and  load  the  breath  of  the 
traveller  springing  nearest  the  mountain 
Bummit. 

It  was  the  most  unfortunate  thing  that  had 
ever  hapi)ened  to  him,  to  be  returned,  as  it 
vere,  on  her  hands  —  driven  to  dependence 
on  her  for  feminine  tenderness  and  care, 
just  at  the  time  when  he  had  lost  his  most 
delicate  and  powerful  sense  —  that  whose 
closing  was  to  such  an  organization  like 
blindness  —  total  blindness  of  the  soul.  For 
light  is  indeed  the  only  fitting  analogy  for 
sound,  and  they  who  are  of  music's  children 
love  it  better  than  common  eyes  love  light. 

More  unfortunate  was  it  yet,  because  by 
this  time  she  had  come  to  consider  him  of 
consequence,  as  he  made  money,  and  had  lived 
in  royal  houses.  She  had  boasted  of  him 
to  her  curious  friends  and  ignorant  acquaint- 
ance —  not  more  ignorant  than  she,  with 
more  excuse  She  had  counted  on  freedom 
from  earthly  cares  her  whole  life  for  the 
future,  through  his  bounty,  which  she 
named  her  due,  and  esteemed  as  poor  part- 
payment  for  parental  kindness  and  innate 
merit. 

And  Rodomant,  much  like  all  generous 
natures,  had  wrought  himself  into  a  frame 
of  fihal  hope  —  a  weary,  if  unuttered,  long- 
ing after  rest — rest  in  which  quietly  to  be 
let  alone  to  sufl'er,  and  wliich  he  fancied 
must  be  fulfilled  on  that  cold  shrine  —  a 
loveless  home.  Her  heart  would  surely  open 
tu  him  now,  after  long  absence,  returned  in 
woe,  which  must  be  sacred  to  a  mother,  and 
her  secret—  hidden  frum  all  others  upon  earth. 
The  woe  was  not  only  irreparable,  but  wrong 
darkened  and  sharpened  it — his  own  wrong 
against  himself.  His  conscience  was  tor- 
mented with  the  indiscretion  which  had 
drawn  down  that  doom  upon  his  head  ;  he 
was  not  born  so  fated,  at  least  such  was 
his  persuasion,  and  through  it  he  suffered 
doubly. 

Had  his  mother  received  him — not  to  say 
with  open  arms,  but  with  decent  fondness — 
he  would  have  cleared  his  conscience,  and 
opened  his  whole  heart  out  to  her — inju- 
diciously, of  course,  but  impulsively,  and 
even  gratefully  —  grateful  for  a  friend  be- 
tween whom  and  himself  (intercepted  by 
lieshly  ties)  pride  need  not  thi-ust  its  bar- 
riers. 

But  she  was  amazed,  she  was  vexed,  she 
was,  most  of  ajl,  cold  and  hard.  She 
showed  more  stupid  than  he  had  deemed 
her  ;  he  had  been  of  late  with  a  woman  the 
wisest  of  her  sex.  She  showed  stupid,  for 
he  could  not  hear  her  voice  ;  and  her  face 
—  which  grim  disappointment  darkened  — 
her  face  was  as  the  face  of  a  stranger. 
Prom  that  moment,  he  repudiated  explana- 
tion ;  above  all,  he  resolved  to  conceal  from 
her  his  infii-mity.  There  was,  then,  but  one 
alternative,  to  seem  dumb ;  for  as  he  could 
not  hear,  how  without  self-betrayal  should  he 
iiswer  ? 


The  verj'  night  of  nis  arrival — aggravated 
to  her  specially,  because  he  had  come  in  a 
private  royal  carriage,  which  had  gone  away 
without  him,  thus  assuring  her  he  had  come, 
not  to  visit,  but  to  live  or  stay;  —  that  same 
night  Rodomant,  driven  on  by  the  last  hope 
that  merges  in  despair,  -svent  to  a  phy«ician 
hard  by,  who  had  known  him,  and  pro- 
nounced in  childhood  upon  his  "  irritable 
genius."  To  him,  under  seal,  or  rather  ab- 
solute oath  of  secrecy,  he  confided  his  cause 
of  torment,  and  submitted  for  examination 
without  a  murmur.  Baffled  completely  — 
for  he  could  detect  no  flaw  nor  organic  de- 
fection —  this  physician  called  on  another, 
specially  and  solely  devoted  to  the  sense  of 
hearing,  and  somewhat  arrogant  in  his  pre- 
tentions to  inevitable  cure.  He,  too,  was 
baffled  ;  but  he  left  behind  his  stricter  and 
more  intricate  search  greater  mischief  than 
he  found.  The  nerves,  neutrally  deadened 
before,  were  touched  now  into  living  torture, 
whose  vibrations,  of  stronger  agony  than 
pain,  seemed  to  sting  and  gnaw  the  very 
centre  of  sensation. 

R.odomant  raved  at  them  both,  then  flung 
their  fees  in  their  faces,  and  rushed  out  of 
the  house,  and  straightway  sank  into  a  mood 
of  gloom  and  heaviness  which  might  be  felt 
—  a  silent  and  mortal-daunting  mood;  he 
never  raised  his  eyes,  he  never  spoke,  scarce 
ever  moved,  and  hardly  ever  ate  ;  worst  of 
all  for  himself,  he  never  slept ;  condemned 
all  hours  of  the  day  and  darkness  at  once 
to  hear  no  hint  of  the  lost  music,  to  catch 
no  echo  from  the  breathing  woiid,  and  to 
listen  to  a  roaring  inwards  as  of  a  sea  that 
whelmed  his  brain. 

Superstitious  to  the  last  and  in  the  lowest 
degree,  and  afraid  —  as  all  the  superstitious 
are  —  of  insanity  in  every  form,  also  like  the 
illiterate  and  unfeeling  together,  apt  to  con- 
nect every  unknown  and  unusual  symptom 
of  sickness  or  behavior  with  insanity,  the 
mother  took  her  course  according  to  hei 
creed  of  ignorance  and  mock  ideas  of  duty. 
Directly  he  had  come  home,  tliat  very  night 
while  he  was  in  bed,  she  possessed  herself 
of  all  the  money  he  had  brought,  and  hid  it 
for  her  future  use. 

But  a  few  days  afterwards,  she  communi-  j 
cated  in  person  with  the  charitable  commit- 
tee of  a  free  asylum  hi  the  next  town  —  not 
her  native  one,  in  v.  hich  she  lived,  —  and 
obtained  leave  for  him  to  be  examined,  in 
process  towards  admission,  in  case  he  proved 
insane. 

All  honor  to  the  jury  of  sane-said  minds 
who  sat  in  judgment  upon  his.  Certainly 
Rodomant  scowled  i*pon  them  as  they  ap- 
jjroached,  the  very  image  of  a  dumb  mad- 
man, and  when  they  attempted  to  handle 
him  resisted  and  beat  them  back,  in  likeness 
of  a  strong  madman  too.  His  pulse  tear- 
ingiy  rapid,  thriliingly  high  ;  his  head  burn- 
ing,'as  if  covered  with  a  red-hot  ii'on  plata 
on  the  "region  of  the  brain,"  —  above  all. 


RUMOR. 


207 


dumb,  determinately  dumb  —  though  not 
born  so.  Proof  this  last  of  mania  rather 
than  strict  madness,  as  the  blood-excitation 
was  one  proof  of  that. 

It  so  happened,  therefore,  that  he  was 
removed  by  force  —  proof  additional  and 
conclusive.  Would  a  sane  man  struggle 
against  captivity  of  the  will  by  his  brother 
man  ?  Of  course  not,  — he  Avould  go  sanely, 
and  sanely  argue  out  his  sanity.  But  fero- 
cious as  he  was  on  the  road,  despair  met 
him  at  the  threshold  of  the  asylum  —  that 
house  of  health  —  and  chained  him  strong 
as  iron  on  every  joint,  and  calmed  him  like 
tlie  snow-sleep  freezing  fast  the  limbs  to 
death.  Again  examined  within  the  walls, 
he  was  quift  enough,  spirit-spent  enough,  to 
be  pronounced  harmless,  to  him  a  worse 
curse  than  had  he  been  named  dangerous  or 
desperate,  for  it  entailed  on  him  the  neces- 
sity of  contact  with  those  actually  mad, 
botli  those  who  were  reckoned  harmless  like 
himself,  and  those  who  had  not  always  been 
so,  but  were  now  reclaimed  from  the  sharper 
discipline  \\  hich  had  fined  down  the  charac- 
ter of  their  frenzy.  And  if  any  thing  could 
hive  maddened  him,  that  contact  would. 
It  certainly  drove  him  desperate  in  his  own 
consciousness,  and  made  him  dangerous  to 
himself.  His  flesh  crept,  his  soul  revolted 
from  those  strange  faces  with  all  their 
warped  expressions  —  the  sidelong  glances, 
the  furtive  leers,  the  grins  without  mirth, 
the  sighs  without  sorrow,  here  and  there  the 
spectacle  of  the  rabid  instinct,  gagged  and 
starved,  or  the  saddest  of  all  wanderir.g 
dooms  —  the  melancholy  mad.  The  hideous 
yearning  at  last  came  over  him  to  imitate 
them,  to  mock  their  grimaces,  their  gestures 
—  to  cower  like  them  under  the  master- 
keeper's  eye.  And  all  night  they  played 
before  his  sleepless  eyes  on  the  dark  wall  of 
his  cell,  —  lay  a  sick  and  dreary  incubus 
upon  his  dreamless  brain. 

At  last,  controlled  by  others,  when  he 
should  have  controlled  himself  alone,  his 
control  grew  languid  and  sank,  —  gave  way; 
he  cared  no  longer  to  maintain  it.  The 
nerve-life,  strained  to  its  extremest  tension, 
snapped  and  failed.  What  seemed  a  col- 
lapse of  the  faculties  in  the  annihilation  of 
the  will,  and  which  was,  in  fact,  the  sem- 
blance of  madness,  followed.  Then  followed 
treatment,  instead  of  simple  control  and 
vigilance. 

What  was  deemed  and  doctored  as  his 
monomania  still  remained  in  form  of  silence ; 
that  is,  he  would  not  speak.  But  while  he 
tore  his  hair  and  rent  his  dress,  he  uttered 
cries  like  the  screams  of  the  dumb,  which 
rent  the  ears  of  those  who  heard  them,  for 
he  heard  them  not. 

Now,  the  discipline  of  the  asylum  shared 
the  age's  enlightenment  and  reform  —  it 
owned  no  torture-chamber,  nor  chain,  nor 
whip  ;  but  it  Avas  a  charitable  and  a  free  asy- 
lum, aud  contained  a  thousand  inmates.  How 


should  the  idiosyncrasies  of  all  be  studied, 
any  more  than  those  of  sane  children  in  a 
charity  or  free  school?  They  were,  like 
these  latter,  humanely  considered  in  themas.s, 
but  individiials  were  unknown  among  tliem. 
The 'God-smitten,  numbered  in  heaven,  M'ere 
victims  unnumbered  u])on  earth. 

They  kept  Rodomant  in  the  darkness  dur- 
ing that  paroxysm,  to  rest  his  brain,  and  in 
solitude,  that  he  might  not  excite  others. 
Want  of  hearing  had  felt  like  darkness  be- 
fore, but  real  darkness  was  superadded  now. 
At  last,  light  fare,  and  frequent  fasting  from 
that,  brought  him  physically  low,  and  the 
mental  torment  passing  into  the  weakness  of 
the  flesh,  decayed.  He  was  therefore  released 
from  darkness,  but  still  not  permitted  to 
mingle  in  the  crowd  of  wandering  reasons  — 
well  for  him.  This  being  a  humane  institu- 
tion, innocent  recreations  wtre  permitted, 
even  innocent  whims  indulged.  Rodomant, 
for  instance,  had  not  l)een  deprived  of  his 
bird  ;  indeed,  he  would  have  fought  for  it  to 
the  death,  and  none  could  have  laid  a  finger 
on  it  Avithout  actual  danger  ;  but  it  had  been 
used  to  darkness,  as  all  trained  members  of 
its  order  are,  and  suffered  nothing  from  it. 
Sane  enough,  in  his  nervous  extremity,  to  be 
afraid  of  doing  it  harm,  he  never  touched  it 
all  that  time  ;  it  sat  on  the  perch  of  its  large 
cage  in  a  corner,  and  as  it  is  called  in  bird- 
fimciers'  jargon,  moped  ;  in  reality,  that 
which  it  had  in  place  of  a  soul,  ])ined  after 
the  soul  that  had  cherished  it.  After  his  re- 
lease from  darkness,  Rodomant  treated  it  as 
of  old  —  kept  it  in  his  bosom,  and  fed  it 
from  his  hand.  No  idea  of  m  d^ing  use  of  it 
struck  him  then,  for  loss  of  personal  free- 
dom at  first  aff"ected  him  as  with  the 
sense  of  death  —  living  burial,  withal  — 
total  and  necessary  separation  from  the  liv- 
ing free. 

The  bii-d  drooped ;  but  Rodomant  had 
never  seen  it  in  its  joyous  aud  vivid  mood 
—  that  spiritedness  which  birds  certainly  pos- 
sess, if  without  souls  —  therefore,  he  feared 
not  for  it;  and  he  chose  not  to  notice  it 
more  than  was  necessary,  because  of  its  con- 
nection with  her.  But  once  reaccustomed  to 
the  light,  and  thankful,  if  not  glad,  to  be 
alone,  he  craved  to  test  his  powers  of  com- 
position, or  to  discover  whether  they  were 
lost.  He  must,  for  that  end,  communicate 
with  some  one.  It  was  not  then  to  be 
thought  of,  for  he  was  resolved  as  ever  not 
to  speak.  There  was  even  a  charm  to  him 
in  withholding  his  voice,  because  it  seemed 
now  all  he  could  call  his  own,  and  master  in 
secret  possession.  Idleness,  however,  was 
unendurable,  and  at  last  he  brought  himself 
to  write  —  he  had  thought  of  it  at  first,  and 
repudiated  it  —  on  the  princess's  tablet.  She 
had  put  it  into  his  hands  at  parting.  His 
request  (simple  enough)  for  pens,  ink,  and 
paper  was  instantly  granted,  though  he  waa 
watched  a  while,  and  several  of  his  first  effu- 
sions  were   carried    away  to   be   examined. 


!08 


RUMOR. 


Bit,  proviid  to  be  notliing  but  scribblings  in 
musica.  notation,  they  were  pronounced 
luumless  as  their  author,  upon  whose  disease 
they  tended  to  throw  no  light.  So  spoke 
tho  Ammiltee  ;  but  had  one  of  them  chanced 
to  be  a  profound  musician,  he  might  have 
traced  the  disease  through  all  its  phases 
metaphysical  therein,  even  to  its  souixe  ; 
80  inexorable  was  the  science,  and  so  ex- 
])ressive  the  passion,  of  that  his  artistic 
))astime. 

liut  Rodomant  had  written  at  first  too  ve- 
hemently, and  the  ])hysical  energy  was  spent 
too  soon  for  his  peace  —  for  his  patience. 
Now,  for  the  first  time,  idealess,  heart-sick, 
ho])eless,  he  turned  passively  to  Heaven,  and 
saw,  alas  !  a  face  between  himself  and  Heav- 
en, which  made  Heaven  shrink  to  distance 
immeasurable  and  incredible  —  beyond  his 
soul,  his  aim,  his  attainment.  For  he  could 
not  reach  her — how  Heaven,  then,  which 
must  contain  her? 

He  had  no  longer  the  right  to  love  ;  at 
least,  if  he  had  been  really  mad,  a  fad  he 
knew  not  that  he  doubtfd.  Then,  of  coiu'se 
he  did  not  love  ;  he  denied  to  himself  the 
possibility  ;  he  icould  not,  again  he  leaned 
upon  his-  crushed  and  uselessly-suspended 
M'iil.  And  again  it  yielded,  and  he  charged 
the  weakness,  his  love's  relenting,  upon  an- 
other—  that  other  no  human  soul.  On  a 
bright  morning,  the  bird,  pined  to  thinness, 
wiiich  its  soft  down  and  delicate  full  i^lu- 
mage  concealed,  dashed  suddenly  —  wildly  — 
agiiust  the  window,  at  that  moment  closed : 
—  then  flew  round  and  round  the  room, 
uttering  low  calls  —  Rodomant  heard  not, 
though  he  watched  its  motions  with  amaze. 
Next,  exhausted,  its  heart  panting  through 
its  whole  frame,  it  perched  upon  his  hand, 
surveying  him  with  expressive,  piteous  ghn- 
ces  —  eyes  that  bemoaned  its  fate  in  looks 
more  sad  than  tears.  Then  flew  round  the 
room  again  —  and  again  beat  its  wings 
ag  liust  the  window.  Lastly,  came  back  to 
his  hand,  and  flxed  its  eves  once  more  on 
his. 

Rodomant  correctly  interpreted  the  bird's 
desire — but  allowed  not  to  himself  that  it 
l)ore  the  slightest  resemblance  to  his  own. 
He  would  not  keep  it  captive  —  he  had  suf- 
fered too  strongly  in  captivity.  Long  had 
been  the  bird's  captivity  —  long  even  as  his 
own.  It  should  fly  —  it  should  go  free.  But 
for  it  to  go  free  was  to  go  home,  happier 
than  he  and  wiser  than  its  heaven-given 
instinct;  —  it  had  wings,  and  knew  how 
to  direct  them  in  a  path  along  a  track- 
ess  way. 

But,  sending  the  bird  without  message, 
woidd  it  be  recognized  and  received?  Were 
there  not  in  the  winged  Avorld  more  thou- 
sands like  it?  Was  it  not  long,  long  since 
she  had  seen  its  eyes  ?  What  if  she  closed 
lo  it  her  window  —  refused  to  let  the  com- 
missioned stranger  'inter?  This  was  some 
of  the  nonsense  of  lovers'  logic.     Then  there 


was  more  he  uttered  to  his  own  heart ,  -  if 
he  wrote  he  must  write  the  truth,  he  aared 
not  tell  her  lies  ;  further,  had  she  not  com- 
manded him  to  write  in  trouble  —  only  in 
trouble, —  and  dared  he  disobey?  Besides, 
there  could  be  no  harm  in  writing,  and  no 
danger,  if  he  confined  himself  to  strict  com- 
])laint.  She  was  most  likely,  besides,  by  this 
time  married  to  Porphyro,  and  as  a  woman 
safe  from  him  or  any  man  ;  —  this  last  false  ■ 
argument  clinched  design.  For  Rodomant 
no  more  believed  that  she  had  married  Por- 
phyro, than  that  she  would  turn  the  bird 
away  from  her  window.  This  noncredence 
resulted  not  from  any  knowledge  of  Por- 
phyro's  imi)erial  realizations,  for  he  had 
Jieither  read  nor  inquired  for  information,  on 
his  account  (since  leaving  her).  So,  written 
with  a  trembling  hand,  and  tied  with  trem- 
bling fingers  to  the  wing  of  its  aerial 
Mercury,  the  complaint  was  sent.  Wished 
back  of  course,  directly  it  was  too  late 
for  recall ;  and  contemplated  with  sullen 
pride,  as  the  sealed  sign-manual  of  self- 
degradation. 

Now,  when  Adelaida  I'eceived  that  com- 
plaint,—  the  short,  sharp,  silent  call  out  of 
torment  unnatural,  unspeakable,  at  length 
unbearable  —  it  is  not  too  much  to  say  that 
she  suff'ered  agonies  of  conscience,  as  well  as 
heart.  She  had  never  heard  him  describe  or 
fliscuss  his  mother  ;  but  he  had  ever  named 
her  with  a  simpler  show  of  honor  than  he 
accorded  to  any  in  his  speech,  always  saving 
herself  alone.  But  like  all  noble  children 
who  have  never  known  a  mother,  she  thought 
a  mother  must  be  the  sweetest  and  the 
safest  friend — the  surest  comforter  —  the 
most  judicious  adviser,  too.  Even  now  she 
did  not  know,  nor  guess,  how  far  his  mother 
was  to  blame ;  but  she  must  be  to  blame,  if 
she  had  permitted  others  to  claim  the  charge 
of  him.  Perhaps,  however,  she  considered 
the  mother  had  died  suddenly  ;  for  her  char- 
ity was  boundlessly  suggestive.  Then,  the 
whole  blame  belonged  to  her  herself.  She 
had  let  him  go — alone,  friendless,  without 
security  for  his  future.  In  fact,  at  the  mo- 
ment of  his  departure,  she  had  erred,  and 
that  the  first  time  in  her  life,  through  pride 
—  a  womait's  divine,  yet  selfish,  instinct  to 
conceal  her  love  in  that  last  struggle :  she 
had  studied  her  own  interest  as  a  woman 
not  his  as  a  human  being.  She  had  not 
dared  to  question  the  fact  of  his  departure; 
she  had  not  dared  to  hint  at  his  detention, 
even  for  a  while.  And  now  she  was  dou1)ly 
punished :  his  suff"erings,  past  and  irretriev- 
able, fiiced  her  full,  —  dread  spectres  of  sub- 
stantial agonies  endured  b}'  him  in  the  jjower 
of  others,  and  those  others  —  what  might 
they  not  be  ?  What  dark  secrets  of  the 
darkest  prison-house  of  life  might  not  scare 
his  memory  now,  forever,  and  cloud  his  gen- 
ius for  all'  time  ?  She  shrunk  in  thought 
from  that  view  of  the  sidiject.  But,  liesides, 
the   brief  message  expressed  only  the  wild 


RUMOR. 


209 


and  cTiftined  desire  to  be  free  ;  only  demanded 
her  to  fulfil  her  promise  —  a  promise  given 
by  herself,  not  extorted,  nor  ^even  asked,  by 
him.  Not  a  sign  of  any  passion  but  despair 
imbued  it  —  not  a  word  concealed  the  slight- 
est hint  of  love.  Her  task  was  now  set  -  -  to 
screen  her  love  behind  her  human  interest, 
and  under  patronage's  frozen  veil  to  hide  her 
passion. 

Rodomant's  mother,  having  done  her  duty 
by  him,  sate  at  peace  in  her  own  house.  She 
would  even  have  said,  could  she  have  put 
her  meaning  into  words,  that  a  person  pos- 
sessing that  dangerous,  troublesome,  and 
useless  gift,  called  genius,  was  better  in  con- 
finement, if  humanely  treated,  even  if  not 
mad.  She  was  an  ignorant  woman,  weak  in 
sex  and  spirits ;  he  was  watched  and  cared 
for  by  wise,  religious  men,  well  paid  to  do 
their  work,  and  therefore  sure  to  do  it.  It 
was  all  for  the  best  —  better  than  if  he  had 
remained  at  home  in  idleness  —  better  than 
if  he  had  remained  in  full  exposure  to  the 
temptations  of  the  world. 

She  was,  however,  rather  disconcerted 
when  one  day  a  travelling  carriage  stopped 
at  her  door,  and  a  lady  of  commanding  ges- 
tures and  ineffable  beauty  made  inquiries 
concerning  her  son.  She  read  more  than 
disapjn-obation  —  disgust,  disdain,  in  those 
queenly  looks ;  and  the  loving  eyes  flashed 
forth  a  lightnii^g  at  her,  Avhich  pierced 
tnrough  joints  and  marrow,  and  the  hard 
wall  of  her  heart,  to  conscience.  But  she 
was  not  rebuked,  except  in  silence,  and  the 
terrors  of  the  expressive  eyes.  The  exact 
distance  and  direction  gained,  the  lady  went 
her  way  at  full  speed  ;  but  delight  and  dread 
surpassed  it. 

The  mother  had  been,  through  all  her 
fears,  imjjressed  with  the  gravity  of  the 
bright  lady's  dress  ;  and  it  had  alarmed  her 
further,  for  she  recognized  the  set  religious 
costume,  though  it  prevented  her  from  form- 
ing impertinently-romantic  or  insultingly- 
rash  conclusions.  The  costume  she  wore 
gained  Adelalda  entrance ;  without  it  she 
might  have  failed,  for  she  carried  no  certifi- 
cate from  the  committee,  nor  sign  of  any 
social  rank.  She  was,  according  to  her  re- 
quest, admitted  as  a  visitor,  and  expressed 
i  desire  to  see  all  over  the  asylum.  An 
officer  and  a  nurse  accompanied  her.  Much 
they  marvelled  at  her  slight  and  rapid  survey, 
after  the  strong  interest  she  expressed  —  at 
her  soft,  hurrifd  steps  —  her  breathless,  low 
inquiries.  Greater  was  their  wonder,  when 
they  reached  a  certain  door.  "  It  is  a  dumb 
madman  in  there,"  explained  the  nurse  paus- 
ing ;  "  and  he  has  been  dangerous.  He 
went  mad  on  music,  the  doctors  think,  for 
he  is  always  writing  it,  and  tearing  it  to 
pieces  again.  Besides,  the  phrenologists 
felt  his  head,  and  the  bump  for  that  is 
largest  —  except  self-esteem.  Should  you 
go  in  there  ?  it  would  be  better  not ;  he  is 
apt  to  take  offence,  above  all  at  strangers, 
27 


and  has  an  awful  way  of  looking,  even  when 
he  does  nothing  worse.  He  had  a  bird  —  a 
pretty  pigeon  —  when  he  came  here,  and 
then  he  would  not  let  any  one  touch  it.  But 
we  think  he  has  strangled  and  hidden  it  — 
perhaps  eaten  it ;  they  have  such  tricks  and 
fancies.  We  cannot  find  it,  however  —  and 
yet,  perhaps,  it  flew  away." 

But  the  visitor  not  only  insisted  on  enter- 
ing—  she  would  go  alone.  A  double  golden 
handful  won  her  the  permission,  which  eiee 
had  not  been  granted.  And  directly  she 
entered,  she  bolted  the  door  inside.  She 
started  when  she  saw  him  first.  For  an 
instant  —  shorter  than  a  breath  —  she  knew 
him  not.  For  his  back  was  towards  her, 
and  one  sign  of  mortal  winter  had  fallen  on 
his  mortal  spring.     He  was  now  indeed,  — 

"  A  youth ;  with  hoary  hair." 

But  though  he  heard  her  not,  he  felt  her 
even  before  she  came.  Her  steps  dropped 
on  the  silence  of  his  being  —  listening  alone, 
as  it  lived  alone,  for  her  —  like  echoes  of 
unheard  music,  or  kisses  sweeter  than  all 
music,  which  the  spirit  in  embracing  long 
before  the  meeting  in  the  flesh — gave  back 
the  Spirit  for  its  hope.  And  he  turned  to- 
wards her  a  face  shining  clear  with  the 
shadoiv  of  the  glory  which  gives  light  to  the 
heaven  of  heavens.  And  stretched  out  help- 
less arms  :  token  sufficient  of  humanity  in  the 
beloved,  for  the  loving  woman  upon  earth. 
Love's  secrets,  like  those  of  death  —  are 
sacred ;  be  they  so  untold. 

Diamid  Albany,  —  not  as  he  had  desired 
nor  expected,  —  received  his  reward.  Few 
husbands  would  again  have  taken  a  wife,  as 
he  took  Gerakline  —  to  his  bosom,  to  his 
heart,  to  his  life,  for  all  life.  Without  ques- 
tion, without  reproach,  without  decline  from 
devotion,  without  even  change  in  the  method 
of  his  tenderness.  What  indeed  would  it 
have  been  to  him  of  assurance,  to  be  told, 
to  have  confessed  to  him  what  he  already 
deemed  he  knew  P  —  that  as  her  love  had 
faltered  and  her  faith  a  season  failed,  he 
could  never  recover  her  heart.  For  this  he 
believed,  this  bitterness  steeped  the  sweet 
fountains  of  his  life's  first  joy,  and  changed 
its  flavor.  She  never  knew  it ;  for  no  bitter- 
ness had  turned  his  LOVE,  and  that  was 
given  her  fi-eely  —  more  freely  than  when 
she  first  gave  hers.  Then,  why  should  he 
reproach  her  ?  Could  she  help  it,  if  his  love 
had  failed  to  satisfy  her  of  his  truth  ?  Too 
compassionately  —  too  simply,  out»  of  uncon- 
scious pride  —  he  sxirveyed  her  nature,  for 
reproach  to  be  reasonable  in  his  eyes.  How, 
either,  could  he  change  his  manner,  even  to 
enhance  his  dignity  ?  for  he  had  once  de- 
ceived her,  no  she  thought,  he  would  never 
apparently  again  deceive  her.  So  his  love  — 
strong,  pure,  and  deep  as  ever  —  fulfilled  its 
every  impulse,  and  was  free.  But  none 
knew  the  secret  of  his  impaii-ed  and  melan- 


210 


RUMOR. 


eholy  happiness.  He  scarcely  knew  himself 
how  much  he  suffered  from  the  beHef,  to 
him  fact,  that  Geraldine's  love  was  not  his 
•wholly,  albeit  she  had  in  faith  returned. 
Possibly,  had  he  revealed  to  her  this  his 
misbelief,  she  could  never  have  succeeded  in 
convincing  him  it  was  fiilse.  As  it  was  — 
for,  in  comparison  with  her  love,  her  tender- 
ness, her  yearning  over  him  yioio  ;  her  first 
young  passion  in  its  bud  had  been  but  pre- 
scient and  imperfect.  In  this,  her  first  full 
bloom  of  womanhood,  she  fancied  herself  to 
feel,  as  indeed  she  showed,  more  reserve 
towards  her  husband  than  in  her  first  mar- 
riage. For  Geraldine — poetess  still  in  mind 
and  heart,  though  never  again  in  deed, — 
always  named  to  herself  her  union  in  the 
first  instance  which  Diamid  and  their  subse- 
quent reunion, —  as  though  the  former  had 
been  the  marriage  made  on  earth,  the  last 
the  marriage  fulfilled  and  finished  —  if  not 
made  —  in  Heaven.  And  the  space  between 
the  two  was  as  it  were  to  her  soul  the  gulf 
^of  death  overpast,  and  forgotten  in  the  peace 
of  the  paradise  beyond  attained:  —  as  we 
may  fondly  and  faithfully  believe  our  own 
dark  passage  to  the  light  shall  be — for- 
gotten, M'hen  we  attain  that  light. 

But  that  reserve  of  hers,  which  she  attri- 
Duted  to  her  own  unspeakable  gratitude,  and 
the  things  "by  the  ear  unheard,"  as  by  the 
eye  "  unseen,"  pertaining  to  perfect  mar- 
riage ;  mysteries,  even  so  accomplished,  but 
secrets,  unless  accomplished ;  that  reserve 
resulted  in  fact  and  only  from  the  woful 
episode  Avhichwas  to  her  as  the  grave  passed 
through  and  no  more  remembered,  but 
which  to  Diamid  was  an  open  and  an  empty 
grave,  ever  yawning  dimly  beneath  his  feet. 
She  had  left  him  once,  might  not  she  again 
leave  him  ?  For  that  first  time  she  left  him, 
he  believed  —  how  help  it  ?  that  her  heart 
had  swerved.  Alas,  what  right  had  he  to 
expect  that  she  should  stay?  He  had  (so 
he  considered  in  himself)  selfishly  sought 
her  love,  and  forced  upon  her  his,  too  early, 
at  an  age  when  almost  any  child  of  ideal 
mind  will  respond  to  the  prophecy  of  woman- 
hood. And  now  —  he  believed,  she  remained 
with  him  because  it  was  her  duty,  and  even 
forced  herself  to  take  his  love  with  smiles, 
to  accept  it  without  tears.  Perhaps  no  person 
except  a  woman  would  have  believed  or  could 
have  understood  that  Geraldine  had  never, 
as  a  woman,  loved  Geraldi ;  and  that  she 
was  as  guileless  of  passion  for  him  as  she 
was  instinct  with  pure  affection.  However, 
as  Diamid  never,  even  in  their  first  meeting, 
alluded  to  Geraldi,  Geraldine  dared  not.  He 
refrained  from  fear  of  breathing  on  the  scarce 
closed  wound ;  she,  from  fear  of  feigning  re- 
gret she  did  not  feel.  For  never  death  of 
one  so  near  in  the  dear  affinity  of  blood, 
brought  such  full  repose  to  the  survivor. 
Perhaps,  also  to  the  dead. 

Thus  it  happened  that  on  that  subject 
there  never  was  any  explanation  given  nor 


asked,  —  both  avoided  it.  But  the  difference 
between  them  in  this  instance  was,  that  Ger- 
aldine, after  a  short  spell  of  her  new  bliss, 
forgot  the  intervening  anguish  altogether, 
even  to  its  remotest  cause  ;  while  Diamid 
remembered  it  continually  and  ever,  to  the 
end  of  life.  Tlien  was  the  mystery  made 
clear,  with  all  the  mysteries  besides  of  love, 
of  sorrow,  and  of  death. 

What,  then,  was  his  reward  in  l{fe7  That 
he,  a  soul,  whose  one  temptation  Avas  the 
most  earthly  and  the  least  sensual  of  all  ihe 
passions,  the  only  passion,  it  may  indeed  be 
said,  which  in  no  spiritualized  form  what- 
ever, shall  survive  the  grave,  —  re-  isted  that 
temptation  once  for  always,  until  the  end. 
He  repudiated  his  life's  pursuit,  and  crushed 
to  dust  his  idol  for  his  love.  He  renounced 
his  hold  on  fame,  and  consigned  to  oblivion 
what  he  had  safely  and  fairly  won. 

Physicians  ordained,  and  her  obvious  con- 
dition confirmed  their  ordinance,  that  Geral- 
dine could  not  live,  or  that  to  tempt  life 
there,  would  be  to  experience  relapse,  which 
must  be  fatal  in  a  northern,  any  northern 
climate.  She  was,  therefore,  to  remain  in 
Italy.  Italy  —  to  a  man,  like  Albany !  Yet 
there  he  remained  with  her.  Italy,  theme 
inexhaustive  of  poets  exhausted,  and  pet 
paradise  of  idle  lovers  !  For  him  a  flower 
whose  honey  had  been  drained,  a  spring 
dried  up,  a  changeless  picture  of  one  eternal 
dream.  Yet  there  he  remained  for  life,  and 
so  sealed  her  health,  her  comfort,  and  his 
own  marriage  vow,  as  well  as  her  happiness, 
for  truly  she  adored  her  home. 

When  he  had  left  England  on  the  receipt 
of  her  letter,  that  letter  whose  very  length 
and  full  expi'essiveness  deceived  him,  he  had 
been  on  the  point  to  realize  the  desire,  long 
delayed,  of  his  intellectual  being,  and  of 
what  he  dearly  esteemed  besides  his  moral 
worth  and  public  fitness.  A  vacancy  had 
occurred,  which,  on  his  filling  it,  had  raised 
him  nearest  the  head  of  government ;  and  iii 
another  month  or  two,  that  head-command, 
long  coveted,  would  have  been  his  own.  • 

His  departure  from  England,  so  sudden 
and  inexplicable  —  his  non-return  ;  entailed 
on  him  the  inevitable  suspicion  of  incom]ie- 
tence,  with  which  the  incompetent  and  vain 
love  to  charge  the  competent  and  proud. 
Even  his  best  friends  disliked,  contemned, 
and  spurned  him  in  his  retreat,  and  their 
partial  verdict  crowned  the  decision  of  the 
crowd.  He  h:K([  failed  at  the  crisis  of  politi- 
cal probation,  and  all  his  earthly  labors  went 
for  nothing. 

More  fruitful  blessings  than  fame  bestows 
were  given  him  in  his  solitude,  and  made 
life's  garden  blossom  like  the  rose.  But  the 
ambitious  —  the  best-hearted  of  such  —  are 
ever  ambitious  for  their  children  ;  thus  his  ^ 
melancholy  became  tinctured  with  that  of 
"  hope,"  as  well  as  that  of  "  resignation." 
He  was,  as  far  as  man  can  be,  a  faultless 
father,  Geraldine  as  faultless,  as  a  mother. 


RUMUtt. 


21] 


Their  children  certainly  reaped  joy  and  early 
instilled  knowledge  from  the  past  sorrows  of 
both  their  jmrents,  and  the  faults  of  one. 
Never  were  children  so  gay  and  fair,  so  win- 
ning, and  so  wise.  Their  father  devoted  his 
life  to  their  education,  and  with  them  their 
mother  learned. 

Neither  was  that  great  gift  of  offspring 
the  exceeding  great  reward.  If  his  name 
faded  in  his  own  lifetime,  and  in  sight  of  his 
own  yearning  eyes,  from  fame's  wan  scroll, 
whose  brightest  record  oblivion  gathers  to 
its  dust  of  six  thousand  years  at  last,  —  it 
was  written  on  a  page  unturned  by  man,  a 
fair  white  stone  which  bears  eternal  testi- 
mony to  all  Sacrifice,  the  least  and  greatest 
if  sincere. 

.  .  .  Lady  Delucy  reached  Calcutta 
before  her  child,  by  what  was  almost  a  mir- 
acle of  speed  and  self-denial,  for  she  had  not 
paused  an  instant  on  the  voyage  ;  and  when 
Elizal^eth  arrived  herself,  mind-weary,  worn 
in  frame,  and  almost  exhausted  with  antici- 
pation —  only  not  sick  at  heart,  nor  failing  in 
love's  own  courage  —  she  found  herself  in 
her  mother's  arms.  The  surprise  was  for- 
gotten in  the  surpassing  joy,  the  comfort  in- 
effable, the  speechless  sense  of  rest.  Eliza- 
beth had  much  to  learn  after  that,  and  her 
voyage  had  been  a  kindly  induction  to  the 
rapid  changes,  and  often  rougher  phases  of 
her  life.  For  a  time,  her  mother,  remaining 
with  her  and  her  husband,  hoped  to  take 
them  back  with  her  to  England  ;  but  in  short 
while  Lyonhart,  from  being  a  commander  of 
armies,  became  also  a  governor  of  peace  — 
an  heroic  fixture  in  that  land,  whose  unde- 
ciphered  characters  he  first  attempted  to 
explain  to  others  —  to  themselves  —  and  was 
certainly  the  fast  to  learn  himself.  And 
Elizabeth,  happy  as  she  was,  glorified  in  his 
supreme  devotion,  —  yet,  womanlike,  pre- 
ferred infinitely  to  share  personally  the  rigors 
of  his  position  abroad  than  to  enjoy  his 
society  and  his  love,  entrenched  in  the  calm 
of  her  useless  rank,  at  home ;  nor  did  she 
ever  try,  in  the  moment  most  dangerous  or 
critical,  to  entice  him  from  his  duty. 

Her  mother  returned  to  England  with  her 
child's  first  child,  then  two  years  old,  and 
there  awaited  the  fresh  arrival  of  other  chil- 
di-en  year  by  year.  As  she  never  parted 
from  them  —  as  she  doted  on  them  —  and 
as  though  born  under  the  tropics,  they  were 
children,  one  and  all,  of  blood  heroic  and 
boundless  spirit,  she  experienced  one  loss  in 
gaining  them.  Hundreds  of  hapjjy  days  — 
years  of  happiness  as  she  enjoyed  through 
them,  and  they  through  her,  she  never  had 
a  quiet  hour  in  her  after-life. 

And  the  greatest  of  all  the  excitements 
which  ever  befell  her  after  her  return  to  Eng- 
land, was  a  journey  she  took  to  visit  a  cer- 
tain deaf  musician  and  his  sweet  wife  in 
Germany.  The  wife  framed  and  sent  the 
invitation,  he  would  never  have  invited  any 
one,  last  of  all  his  first  fair  patron.      But 


Adelaida,  who  had  insisted  on  receiving  all 
details  of  his  life  before  she  knew  him,  and 
had  traced  his  artistic  experience  through 
every  line  and  shade,  had  learned,  without 
commenting  to  him  upon  it,  the  inestimable 
kindness  with  which  one  of  her  own  sex  had 
blessed  her  husband  in  his  sore  need.  Di- 
rectly she  ascertained  that  benefactress  to  be 
in  England,  she  longed  at  once  to  express 
her  own  gratitude  in  person,  and  to  see  the 
woman,  who  —  without  loving  him  —  had 
fostered  his  genius  in  its  strong  and  strug 
gling  infancy  —  without  whose  care,  it  or  its 
possessor  with  it,  might  have  prematurely 
perished.  Probably  she  also  desii-ed  that 
the  lady  should  meet  her  husband  in  his  full 
and  bright  renown  —  a  renown  he  cared  for 
absolutely  nothing  ever  since  it  had  been 
com])assed  and  retained.  Now  she  could 
not  have  wished  to  re-introduce  him  on 
account  of  any  improvement  in  his  grace  or 
gallantry,  for  he  had  made  no  way  in  either, 

—  he  had  rather  declined  in  both.  Surly 
to   strangers  —  incomprehensible  to  friends 

—  for  admirers  impracticable  —  grotesque  as 
in  his  unformed  youth,  and  five  hundred 
times  more  difficult  to  influence  :  he  received 
Lady  Delucy  like  a  fresh  foe  rather  than  a 
friend  of  old ;  but  it  was  not  because  he 
lacked  feeling,  it  was  because  he  felt  too 
much.  His  wife  however  made  amends  for 
his  behavior,  for  his  proud,  speechless  grat- 
itude, and  his  iron  indifi'erence  towards 
all  women  but  herself;  with  her  fadeless 
beauty,  her  exquisite  wit,  her  exhaustless 
tact.  But  it  was  also  true,  that,  except  to 
him,  her  heart  and  her  love  were  sealed. 
Lady  Delucy  never  knew  how  —  nor  whethei 
really,  after  all,  Rodomant  had  betrayed 
her  secret.  Such  small  secrets,  which  go 
to  make  up  the  sum  of  great  ones,  are 
seldom  —  except  in  books  —  explained  on 
eai-th. 

He  had  not  to  work  for  bread.  His  wife 
had  taken  care  of  that.  Too  tenderly  she 
tortured  herself  with  the  infirmity  that 
harassed  his  flesh,  and  which  he  never  con- 
quered —  even  in  spirit  —  the  triumph  of 
the  wife  lay  in  that  fact ;  for,  never  amiab'ie 
in  his  existence,  his  restless  temper  had 
turned  to  moody  now.  He  adored  her,  but 
frequently  tormented  her — she  loved  him 
all   the  more.      To  her  only  he  complained 

—  raved  —  condemned  the  decree  of  fate, 
which  he  deemed  not  ever  that  of  Heaven. 
And  the  more  she  suff"ei-ed  on  his  accoui.tf, 
the  more  she  loved  him  still.  But  would 
not   have  done  so,  but  for  her  knowledge 

—  the  knowledge  a  woman  never  misses  — 
of  his  unchanging  love.  Lady  Delucy  won- 
dered somewhat  at  their  marriage,  over 
which  she  yet  rejoiced.  But  she  never  saw 
them  when  alone  together. 

He  was  not  enforced  to  work  for  bread, 
because  Adelaida,  in  renouncing  with  her 
earthly  rank,  her  worldly  influence,  and  all 
her  cares ;   had  retained  a  small  but  rich 


212 


RUMOR. 


estate,  out  of  ths  scale  of  royal  possessions,  ]  more  men  than  any-living  monarch,  be  that 
which  had  belonged  to  her  own  mother  by  i  little  or  gi-eat  to  say.  In  public  repute  he 
right.  Its  products  sufficed  for  both  of  them,  shares  the  contrary  honors  of  deity  and 
for  they  were  equally  temperate,  equally  un-  demon.  Devotion  and  detestation  are  twin 
worldly,  and  both  luxurious  alike  only  in  guardians  of  his  throne.  For  the  rest,  still 
charity,  in  music,  and  in  love.  *  *  *  his  name  and  fame  are  new  among  the  na 
Porphyro  has  benefited,  if  not  mankind,  |  tions,  and  still  his  reign  is  —  Purple. 


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The  Three  Midshipmen.     By  Wm.  H.  G.  Kingston,  author  of 

"Peter  the   Whaler,"  &c.     With  24  Full-page  Illustrations.     1  volume.     Crown  4to. 

Cloth.     .$2.50. 

Hurricane    Hurry;     or,  The    Adventures  of  a  Naval   Officer, 

Afloat  and  on  Shore.  By  Wm.  H.  G.  Kingston,  author  of  "The  Three  Midship- 
luen,"  &c.     With  Illustrations.     1  vol.     Crown  4to.     Cloth.     ^-IM). 


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